


Moments of Becoming

by fountainpens



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24997669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fountainpens/pseuds/fountainpens
Summary: It's Fashion Week. Andy's sprinting across Paris to let her boss know about Irv Ravitz's plan to oust her from Runway. She doesn't get there in time, but unlike the movie, Miranda doesn't expect this takeover to happen so soon and loses her position as Editor in Chief of Runway. What happens next will test Miranda's ability to reinvent herself and challenge what Andy thought her future would look like.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 240
Kudos: 718
Collections: 5sk





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for trying out this story! This is my first time writing for this fandom, but I've been an avid reader of DWP fanfic for a long time. I started writing this last year actually and only found the time now to go back and fine-tune it. I'll be posting a new chapter once a week until all seven are online. Hope you all enjoy it! <3

Andy sprinted down the hall. After trying Miranda’s phone again and failing to get anything besides a dialtone, she figured the confrontational approach would do. She checked Miranda’s itinerary and felt her panic spike once again after confirming that a meeting with Irv began Miranda’s day. Irv’s suite came nearer, and she already decided in the elevator that she would bang on its door until Miranda heard what she just learned from Christian.

_Mock-up. Jacqueline Follet. Younger. Fresher. Less money._ She figured any of those keywords would trigger a response, so she shuffled them against her tongue, ready to burst through her lips before Miranda could slam the door in her face.

She finally reached the door and raised a fist as a battering ram, but before she could loose the first swing, the door flew open and Miranda nearly ran her over. The pale blur whooshed past her, and Andy quickly pivoted on a too-smooth Blahnik sole and tried to catch up. Once she did, she took a glance at her boss and knew the worst had happened. Miranda’s skin matched her crisp white blouse, and her lips were pursed together in an almost invisible line. Andy looked back quickly at the Royal Suite Miranda had emerged from and noticed Irv standing there with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Andy turned back just in time to slap the down button at the elevator. Thankfully, the doors opened immediately, and they stepped in together. Miranda chose their destination, repeatedly tapping her own floor’s number.

“Miranda, I tried to—,” Andy began, once the doors shut.

Miranda hissed in a breath through clenched teeth and raised her hand for silence. Andy decided to shut up for however long Miranda deemed it necessary, but she’d follow Miranda whether she liked it or not.

They finally made it to her hotel suite, where Miranda lunged toward one of her bags and rifled through a few papers. She pulled out a piece of stationary that she’d used on the plane over to jot down a list of names in preparation for the conversation with Irv she knew was coming. Little did she know that this conversation would arrive much, much sooner than she’d anticipated. Right in the middle of fashion week, to be exact. It was illogical and would probably do as much damage to him as it would to her. Perhaps she should have thought more like him, then she would’ve been prepared for such a ridiculous step.

Andrea stood beside her, but Miranda pivoted closer in her direction.

“How many of these people do you think we could get on the phone?”

“Now?” Andy asked. Miranda responded with only a flare of her nostrils, and Andy ran her finger down the list Miranda kept clutched in her hand. “Um…these are…”

“Andrea, you know how I feel about excuses. If you could get the manuscript of a—”

“It’s fashion week, Miranda. Designers? Models? How could we possibly get these people on the phone?”

The paper crumpled slightly as Miranda curled her fingers in frustration. Andy tried to rack her brain for a solution to a problem that she barely understood at the moment, but could find nothing. She looked over at Miranda and watched her face harden by degrees as she stared at the names on this list, then she looked back at it herself trying to see what could be done.

“Maybe the photographers,” Andrea finally offered in a whisper. Miranda squeezed her arm in a mixture of gratitude and command.

“And I’ll try,” Miranda scanned the list once more and pointed at the top, “these.”

They took out their phones in unison and began dialing, then their voices finally disturbed the tense stillness with fake, positive tones. “I’m calling for Miranda Priestly” and “This is Miranda Priestly calling” began the barrage of calls and greetings that lasted less than a half hour.

Andy ended the final call with a sarcastic “thanks for the help” gritted through her teeth, while Miranda merely snapped her phone shut and stared blankly at the wall opposite them. At any other moment and with any other person, Andy would’ve muttered a “told you so,” but she valued her life far too much to do that now. And in truth, Andy felt zero elation at what was happening, could find no joy in being right that her boss had officially run out of options.

“How did you know?” Miranda finally rasped in a voice that signaled defeat.

“Christian Thompson,” Andy replied. Miranda answered with a frown, so she continued. “I found a mock-up of a _Runway_ cover in his room.” Andy sneaked a look at Miranda to see her reaction, but her face remained as impassive as stone. “He explained that Jacqueline would be taking over, primarily because of the money issues.”

“Primarily?” Miranda missed nothing.

“Christian said something about a fresher take.”

Although Andrea hadn’t stated it explicitly, Miranda understood that her age was a factor. Her silent sneer heralded as much.

“What else?”

“He said he would be running the editorial content. After that, I left and started calling you.”

Miranda took a deep breath and approached one of the large windows that overlooked the broad avenue below her rooms. She watched the luxury town cars idling in the valet drop-off and followed a few of her own fashionably-dressed set exiting the hotel. Some got into cars, while others seemed to debate it for a moment then began their journey on foot down the street. Her eye travelled from one person to a couple to a car to a bicycle, then up and down the full vista from one end of the avenue to another; her view afforded her that panoramic.

“I won’t be attending the luncheon,” she said, knowing Andrea would hear her and take note. “When is the next show?”

“Givenchy at four o’clock,” she replied without hesitation. Then Miranda heard her shuffle and clear her throat slightly. Finally, “Don’t you think not going to the luncheon would—”

Miranda merely turned slightly in Andrea’s direction, and something in her posture and profile silenced Andrea immediately.

“If that’s all...,” then after a few moments with no reply, Andy figured it was safe to pick up her things and leave the room. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment. Taking a deep breath, it’d felt as if she hadn’t the chance to do so since she first started sprinting from Christian to Miranda.

* * *

Hours later, Andy waited for Miranda in the lobby. Each time the elevator doors opened, she shifted her weight forward, but Miranda tarried. In the time since the morning fiasco, Andy had taken a nap that felt more like a coma, then as she showered and dressed, she mentally ran through the different scenarios of the day. She began to wonder what came next, but banished the thought before she drowned in stress.

As she waited, Nigel emerged from the elevator instead. As soon as his gaze fell on Andy, he sped towards her.

“What the hell is going on? Where was she?”

“At the luncheon, you mean?”

“Yes, at the luncheon!” Nigel answered, once he finally reached Andy. “That bastard let Jacqueline Follet lead the remarks once he realized Miranda was a no-show. He didn’t seem to mind it though, which was perhaps the most frightening part.”

“I knew it!” Andy cried. “I told her she should go.”

“Andy, what’s going on?”

She debated whether to tell Nigel everything or if that was up to Miranda. She shifted between the two options, then the elevator doors opened and Miranda arrived, effectively taking the decision from her. Nigel turned at Miranda’s approach and began to speak, but Miranda stopped him.

“Do you still have the position at James Holt?”

“Wh—I—,” Nigel stuttered, not expecting that question. “Yes, Miranda. But I don’t underst—.”

“But there’s still time before you officially transition to his company, correct?”

“Yes, it’s still being set up, so I’m staying with you for the next six weeks, at least.”

“Staying with _Runway_.” And with that correction, Nigel’s features went slack, one by one. “I’m going to need you to do a few things for me, Nigel. The sooner, the better. In fact, if you could return to New York earlier than the others, I would...appreciate it.”

Miranda asking for a favor was a new experience. She commanded, critiqued, even reprimanded, but never would she plead. Just a few hours and already certain intrinsic attributes were falling from her, stolen by an insecure little man with an overgrown ego.

“I understand,” Nigel replied, almost solemnly. “What do you need?”

“I sent you an email with a list. Do what you can or what you have access to. The rest—,” she paused and sneaked a glance up at Andrea, who wasn’t sure whether she should even be listening or not. Miranda must’ve found something in her glance though because she finally continued. “—Andrea can try her hand at.”

“Should I get in touch with Emily?” Andrea asked, already retrieving her phone.

“No,” Miranda immediately replied. “Only we, here, can know about this.”

Both Andy and Nigel nodded.

“I guess I’ll go check for flights then,” Nigel said, then shifted his weight on his feet. After seeming to physically brace himself, he finally blurted out the rest. “This is despicable, Miranda. You don’t deserve this.”

Miranda winced at Nigel’s words. Andy noticed her reaction that passed in under a second, leaving a placid exterior, but Andy nevertheless wondered why Nigel’s sympathetic words would cause her pain.

Miranda merely nodded in response, while Nigel awkwardly patted her arm and left for his room. She then took a deep breath and gazed outside.

“How much time before the Givenchy show?” Miranda asked.

“A little less than an hour,” Andy responded. “I already have your car waiting.”

“Why don’t we walk?”

Andy knew little about Paris, but she felt certain that the Givenchy show wasn’t just a walk away. Before Andy could offer that response though, Miranda had already exited the hotel, and she sped up to follow.

They kept a leisurely pace down a wide avenue, cars and scooters speeding past them and whipping up the cool, early autumn breeze. Andy got to see a bit of Paris last night, but now they were on another side of the Seine. She remembered reading about the Left and Right Bank, their different arrondissements and different styles, like the boroughs and neighborhoods of New York City. Christian was a good tour guide, but a bit cheesy. And the intervening events certainly hadn’t helped her view of last night.

After a few blocks, Miranda turned into a covered alleyway filled with small shops and bakeries. Andy followed and looked up at the glass ceiling, which filtered the afternoon light until it felt as if the alley below were lit with electricity. The whole scene felt both old and new at once and even reminded her a little bit of...

“A mall,” Miranda commented after noticing Andy’s gaze. “The first of its kind.”

“I thought those hadn’t started until the 80s,” Andy laughingly replied.

“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” Miranda responded. “This is one of the oldest. Opened around the 1820s, I believe. But if we’re defining a mall as a covered promenade that houses multiple shops of different varieties, then this would be the first. Paris was a shopping capital before it was ever a fashion capital. Malls, department stores, and then finally the fashion houses arrived.”

“What are they called?” _Never ask Miranda anything_ , a clipped British voice intruded upon Andy’s thoughts, but then she realized she’d broken that rule half a dozen times already today. “These covered alleyways.”

“Different names. Passages, galleries, arcades.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yes,” Miranda said, while opening the door to a small pastry shop. “ _Cool_.”

The richly-scented pastry shop immediately made Andy’s mouth water. She stared at all the tarts, danishes, croissants, cookies, and other flaky pastries decorating the shelves, while Miranda spoke to the women behind the counter. Miranda pointed at a few boxes of macaroons and spoke in French to the attendants, while Andy gazed upon a pain au chocolat. It was probably from the morning; maybe she could get it for a discount. Did they do that in Paris?

“Do you want it?” Miranda asked before passing her card across the counter. “I’m getting these for the girls.”

“No, I’m fine,” Andy replied, more out of manners than actual desire and gave the pastry one last longing glance.

Miranda finished paying, then passed Andy the bag to carry as they entered the passage again, walking through it until they emerged in a network of small streets, all bustling with cafes.

Miranda paused momentarily at one cafe on the corner of a street and a wider plaza. She looked at her watch and noted the time, twenty minutes until the Givenchy show, but only the mechanics of the day brought the show to mind. She looked around her, at the Parisians hunched over their espressos, teenagers leaning against the Metro entrance across the street, and her assistant standing patiently next to her, also glancing at the time.

A waiter wiped down one table in the shade and with a rather enticing vantage point. Miranda involuntarily moved towards it and sat down. She watched Andrea through the corner of her eye, hoping she’d just sit and not make a fuss. Of course, that’s exactly what she did, but not without a few more looks at her watch and sidelong glances at Miranda.

“Pour manger?” A waiter asked as he passed their table.

“Non,” Miranda replied. “Juste deux cafés.”

And with that, Miranda settled back in her chair and stared out at the people walking past. After a few moments, Andy’s rigid posture finally eased, and she settled back too. Miranda felt as if she could instantly breathe more freely. The waiter returned and placed their espressos on the table.

“Merci,” Andy said to his retreating back, while Miranda placed her fingertips on the ceramic cup, testing the temperature and finding it wanting. She took her first sip and wished it burned more. Across the table, Andy took a tentative sip and hissed, “Hot,” between her teeth. Miranda’s eyes rolled.

Andy couldn’t help but wonder what the hell they were doing. Miranda had already missed the luncheon and now — what? She was going to just sit out the rest of fashion week? She’d expected a lot of different reactions from Miranda, but they all just radiated different shades of rage. She hadn’t expected this, which looked suspiciously like surrender.

“A good ensemble.”

Miranda’s comment jolted Andy out of her thoughts, and she scanned the people around them to find the object of Miranda’s gaze. A woman about Miranda’s age sat on a low stone bench directly opposite them in the plaza. Andy first noticed the woman’s severe black bob, cut at the exact level of her cheekbones, then the rest was just a sea of red. Red lips, red dress, red trench, red low-heeled sandals, even a red bag.

“What don’t you like?” Miranda asked, noting how Andy’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

“It’s just so… _red_.”

“Observant. And?”

“And? And that’s it.”

“You don’t like red?”

“No, I do.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

Andy took a deep breath. She felt as if she were being tested, a sudden pop quiz on what’s hot and what’s not. She was just barely getting the hang of dressing herself, so she felt decidedly out of her depth. Nevertheless, she looked again.

“I guess,” Andy began, after a few moments, “I’d always heard that you shouldn’t do head-to-toe one color.”

Miranda hummed. “Not entirely wrong, but here we see an exception to the rule.”

“Why?” Andy asked, deciding to humor the sudden professorial role Miranda seemed determined to adopt this afternoon.

“What you mention is when same-colored fabrics are mixed haphazardly. If you see a man wearing a blue shirt, blue jeans, and blue trainers, then I give you full permission to make the face you made earlier.” Andy immediately thought of Nate’s often monochromatic clothes and began to understand where Miranda was going with this. “What do you know of art, Andrea?”

“My friend owns a gallery, but for me personally, I don’t know much outside of high school Art and trips to museums in New York.”

“The Guggenheim?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“So, you’ve seen a Rothko?”

“That’s the guy that just paints those big squares, right?”

“Be more specific, Andrea. Think like a writer for a moment. With that description, I’d think you were talking about Mondrian.”

“Well,” Andy thought for a moment, trying to remember the day Lily took her to the Guggenheim when she first moved to New York City with Nate. What had Lily told her? “He does color studies.”

“Precisely,” Miranda said. “And what is this but a color study?”

Andy looked at the woman again and noticed the color, but also a few other elements she hadn’t seen before.

“What do you see?” Miranda whispered over the rim of her espresso cup.

“There’s a slight variation in the…value?” Andy blurted the word from some dark corner of her memory. Miranda nodded though, so she kept going. “The dress and the shoes are more like a tomato red, the trench is like wine, the bag like blood.”

Miranda’s lips ticked upward slightly. She wasn’t looking at the woman, but directly at Andrea as she spoke. “And what causes that variation?”

_The dye_ , Andy wanted to say, but she thought for a moment, knowing that was the wrong answer. It’s another art word. “The texture,” Andy realized. “Well, the fabrics in this case, since it’s clothes.”

“Try to name them from here.”

“The dress is linen. The shoes—”

“A slightly brighter red.”

“Satin,” Andy realized. “The bag is leather. And the trench—”

“Not a trench.”

“The—uhh—long coat is also linen, but different—”

“Coarser.”

“—coarser than the dress.”

Miranda nodded once, and Andy finally breathed again. She felt as if she’d just run a hundred meter sprint.

“And do you like it now?” Miranda asked.

Andy shifted her head back and forth. “I think I appreciate it now.”

And at that, Miranda nodded twice.

“Do you like everything you put in the magazine?”

“Perceptive question,” Miranda responded. “If by ‘like,’ do you mean ‘would I wear’ everything I put in the magazine?”

“I guess.”

“Of course not.”

“Then why…”

“Does your curator friend only exhibit the art she’d personally place in her home?”

“No, but that’s different.” It’s art. Although she hadn’t said the words aloud, Miranda intuited them nonetheless.

“And that distinction,” Miranda leveled her with a strangely penetrative glance, “is precisely the one I mean to dismantle.”

Andy tried to keep her features neutral as Miranda looked at her, but as soon as the woman looked away again, Andy allowed pity to color her face. What was she talking about? Andy thought of Christian’s words that morning: _It’s done_. She glanced again at her watch. The Givenchy show had begun with one empty seat in the front row, and here they were talking about the color red and sipping espressos as if they weren’t both out of a job.

She thought of that day, which seemed ages ago, when Miranda had sent her on the impossible task of getting the _Harry Potter_ manuscript. She remembered how she’d called Nate, finally giving up. He had congratulated her, made her quitting a cause worth celebrating, and she recalled how that grated against her skin. Then, only moments later, she got a second wind and immediately raced to meet the goal this indomitable woman had set for her, despite her momentary surrender and her boyfriend’s encouragement.

Somehow, Miranda hadn’t given up yet, all evidence to the contrary. She was waiting for her second wind, her call from an unlikely source, or maybe just for her next idea. Andy couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take and whether she’d even go along for the ride. Whether she’d be allowed a seat. Whether she wanted it.

As Andy sat contemplating what came next, Miranda checked the bill on their table, threw down a few euros, and rose up from her chair. Andy gathered the bag from the pastry shop and her purse, then joined Miranda on the corner. They crossed the street, walked onto the plaza that contained multiple stone benches surrounding a small fountain, and passed the woman in red. Up close, Andy noticed, the outfit was even more intricately styled. She hadn’t been able to see the jewelry before, gold mixed with red.

With her purse pulled against her, Andy felt an insistent vibrating and pulled her phone out, its blaring ring filling the half-empty plaza. Miranda stopped at the sound.

“Sorry,” Andy muttered. “It’s Emily.”

Miranda reached across Andy and grabbed the phone, still loudly ringing.

“Do you have your contacts saved elsewhere?”

“Yes,” Andy automatically replied. “On the office computer and my laptop at the hotel.”

And with that, Miranda launched the phone past Andy, and they both watched it plunk into the greenish water of the plaza’s fountain.

“I’ll get you another one once we’re back in the States. There’s supposedly something coming from Apple next year that’ll make that look like a rotary phone. Perhaps we can get an early version.”

She’s gone insane, Andy thought. But nonetheless, she kept walking alongside Miranda, through the Paris maze of streets, shops, alleys, and bridges.

Miranda only stopped to get something for the girls at various small stores she remembered from the years when she allowed herself time to explore this beautiful city. Andrea carried the weight of her purchases.

She looked at Andrea now, as she craned her eyes across the Seine to observe the lines of Notre Dame after they’d left another store, and again the thought arose that had been annoying her for weeks now. They were both so alike. Granted, Andrea could use more experience, more education, but soon she’d have her first protégée since Nigel. She needed that diversion now more than ever, so she paused for a moment at their view of the cathedral and pointed out the nave’s flying buttresses and the rose window visible to them from this vantage point.

“From the 13th century,” Miranda explained.

“Whoa, that’s old,” Andrea responded.

Yes, Miranda still had much work to do.

“You know a lot,” Andrea added after a moment.

“You sound surprised,” Miranda scoffed.

“Most people are specialists. I thought you were too, but you’re not.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment?” Andrea shrugged, then hesitantly nodded. “Let’s head back to the hotel. Get a taxi.”

“No can do,” Andy replied.

“Excuse me?”

“Taxi drivers are on strike.”

“Is it too much to ask that people just do their jobs?” Miranda muttered to herself.

“Well,” Andy interrupted, and Miranda merely stared, one eyebrow raised, waiting for her repartee. “There’s apparently a new transport law that they’re not too happy about. Their parliament seems to favor a privately-held new group of taxi companies rather than the traditional ones that have always been unionized. Hence, the strike.”

“Good to know,” Miranda responded sarcastically. “Still sounds like people refusing to do their job.”

“That’s the point, though! Maybe if we had more strikes in New York City, there’d be some change to the system rather than gridlock 24/7 and a rotting subway system.”

“Andrea, I’ve been to Paris countless times over the past few decades,” she explained, while retrieving her phone from her bag. “There’s always a strike. Nothing changes, the world keeps spinning, and no one cares. Except for those of us who are inconvenienced by the mess.”

“Got us talking about French politics, didn’t it?” Andy reached over to Miranda’s phone without looking her in the eye and began dialing. “Hello, I’m calling for one of your guests Miranda Priestly. We need a car.”

Miranda watched her look around for the street names, then give their location. When Andy finished, she passed the phone back to Miranda and finally looked up into her eyes haltingly.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” Andy said. “Do you mind if I…?” She pointed to a bookshop that she’d just noticed and remembered from travel brochures. Miranda nodded and strolled toward a small park they passed minutes before, while Andy skipped across the street and inside the dark shop.

Miranda took a turn about the park and began a mental overview of her day, which felt more like a year. This morning’s events seemed to reside in another time and place, far removed from where she stood now. She’d accomplished much in her hotel room since that morning. Now, she only had to wait for Nigel to get certain important materials, then for tomorrow’s meetings. She still felt unsure about her decision. There were so many gaps and unanswered questions and even glaring red lights, but she put them out of mind for the time being. Only action would serve her now.

Action like Andrea’s that morning. Through her rage-filled haze and honest panic, she still noticed Andrea’s determined then dismayed face as she turned on a dime and followed her from Irv’s door back to her room. And even though she balked at Miranda’s initial request, she called models, photographers, and publicists anyways. Of course, Andrea is her assistant; she didn’t really have a choice. Yet, for weeks now, she felt as if something else besides professional duty lied beneath Andrea’s actions and lurked behind her focused gaze. Miranda had seen that look many times, most recently just a few hours ago after a long shower, when she’d stared at herself in the mirror and finally realized what to do next.

About to take her second turn around the park, Miranda spotted a black Mercedes pull up to the corner Andrea had specified and a harried driver emerging and looking around. Less than ten minutes, taxi strike be damned. She walked towards the car and gestured to the driver. He sped around to open her door, and Miranda explained they’d have to wait for her assistant. The driver nodded, closed the door after her, and stood sentinel.

Miranda waited a few minutes, then a few more. She probably should’ve left and let the girl find her own way back, but the thought didn’t take hold, like a bad habit she’d long ago dismissed. Andrea had that effect, for some reason, making her habitual actions towards others into a guilt trip. Finally, she watched Andrea emerging from the shop with all their bags from the day, along with a couple more.

Andy noticed the car immediately and practically sprinted towards it. Once the driver opened the door for her, she flung herself in and took a deep breath. The multiple bags piled between them, and Andy did her best to keep them from encroaching upon Miranda’s space. Naturally, they crowded her own legs and bit into her side instead.

“Sorry, Miranda,” she gasped. “I lost track of time. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

“ _Go_ ,” Miranda commanded the driver as soon as he took his seat.

They glided into the Paris traffic, and Andy stared out her window, taking a few last looks at the bookshop. Then she turned to look across the car and out towards Notre Dame again. In the process, she crashed straight into Miranda’s stare. She blushed immediately, hoping she wouldn’t get a dressing down for keeping her waiting. How was she supposed to know the hotel’s car service would get there in almost half the time?

Right at the moment when Andy was going to cave in and apologize, Miranda began speaking.

“You know, I see a great deal of myself in you.” Andy felt her eyes grow twice their size and didn’t even make an attempt to mask it. “You don’t stop when someone tells you what you can’t do. Those words don’t break you; they fuel you. You grow as a result of critique, even when it's unwarranted or unfair. You don’t crumble like so many others, like so many women usually.”

Andy’s feminism twinged a bit at that last remark, but the rest of the speech hit her like a strong wave. She blushed harder now and barely knew how to respond.

“I—I don’t,” she stammered. “I don’t think I’m like that, Miranda. I don’t think I could survive what you’ve gone through today. I couldn’t endure what Irv did to you.”

But Miranda interrupted her.

“You already have. You’ve endured it from me.”

Miranda turned back to her window and watched as they rode along the Seine, passing its bookstalls and tourists crowding the sidewalks. She felt Andrea’s shocked look weighing upon her, and she honestly felt surprised at her own words. She hadn’t planned them, and they seemed to emerge out of her musings while walking through that park. She was glad though—glad that Andrea knew and hoped that she’d see it for what it was: an apology.

Silent minutes passed with both women staring out of their respective windows and lost in their private thoughts. The driver finally turned onto their hotel’s avenue and into the valet area. Both of his passengers emerged without waiting for him to open the door. Andy quickly grabbed their bags, and Miranda seemed about to walk up the steps, but waited instead. They walked together into the lobby, where Andy passed Miranda’s bags back to her.

“And this one,” Andy whispered, handing over the last purchase.

“No, this is from Shakespeare & Co.”

“Yeah, I wandered into the younger readers’ section and found a couple books I thought the girls might like.”

Miranda peeked into the bag and noticed two small paperbacks, their pages yellowed slightly and giving off the unmistakeable aroma of an old bookshop. She nodded and looked back up at Andrea.

“I have a few meetings tomorrow,” Miranda said and hesitated before continuing. “Will you be joining me for them?”

Another request from the woman who never requested, but then Andy realized Miranda’s true question. The thought had only flitted through her mind momentarily throughout the day, but Andy was, for all intents and purposes, unemployed right now. She was an assistant to the editor in chief of _Runway_ , but the editor in chief of _Runway_ no longer stood before her. It was just Miranda Priestly now. Her thoughts ended there, and she replied.

“Yes, Miranda. What time should I request your car?”

“At ten, I think,” Miranda answered, without missing a beat, but Andy noticed her shoulders lower slightly and lose their former tension. “That should give us sufficient time to get there.”

“Right,” Andy responded.

Miranda nodded. “I’ll send you more details this evening. Through your email.”

Finally, she turned and walked towards the elevators. Andy watched as she boarded an elevator alone, and an attendant pressed the corresponding floor. The elevator doors closed, and Andy nearly shook her head to perhaps help her brain catch up to this afternoon’s events. Andy assumed the rest of her day was free, so she looked at her watch and wondered what she could get up to at this time, what else she could see.

“Six!” Andy swiftly turned to see Nigel emerging from the hotel bar. “Where have you been?”

“Uhh. It’s been a…weird afternoon.”

“Everyone’s been going crazy about Miranda’s no-show at Givenchy. And I’m about to head up and finish packing for my flight tomorrow morning. Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”

“Miranda threw my phone into a fountain.”

“She _what?!_ ” And Nigel guffawed into the cavernous lobby, attracting a few scornful looks at the loud American.

“Yeah! Nigel, I’m pretty sure she’s lost it,” Andy whispered.

“Oh no, honey,” Nigel smirked. “Granted, the phone-throwing seems a bit…gauche for her.” Andy actually thought it was kind of ballsy at the time, but her aesthetic always seemed a bit off amongst this crowd. “But if I’m reading her email to me correctly and connecting the dots of what she wants me to get…”

“What? She hasn’t told me anything besides some cryptic fun facts about colors and windows and other stuff and that we have some meetings tomorrow.”

“Meetings where?” Nigel’s interest piqued.

“She didn’t say.”

“Damn, that’s the last clue I needed.”

“What do you _think_ she’s doing? To be honest, if you’d asked me a few hours ago, I’d have said she’s throwing in the towel.”

“No, no, no,” Nigel chided with a grin. “I’m pretty sure she’s taking a page out of Diana Vreeland’s book.” When Andy looked at him still completely lost, he clarified. “She’s going after the Met. The Costume Institute.”

“The Met?” Andy thought about it for a moment, but then the other shoe dropped. She remembered the recent benefit and what their calendar for spring included. “ _Runway_ organizes and throws the Met Gala. But that’s like…”

“Like taking the Oscars away from Hollywood?” Nigel finished with a laugh. “She’s brilliant. When we’re all honest with ourselves, we know there’s two things that get people to buy the magazine: celebrity covers and the Met Gala. Hell, that event fuels most of our budget for the rest of the year. She hasn’t given up a damn thing.”

Andy’s lips curved into a very satisfied smile. She couldn’t wait to find out where those meetings would be tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I've already finished writing this story, so please subscribe and know that it won't be abandoned or left unfinished. Also, kudos and comments (!!) are lovely ways to show that you're enjoying the story so far. Feel free to share what you liked and what you're looking forward to seeing!


	2. Chapter 2

Andy strode into the Starbucks on Madison and headed straight for the pickup countertop, where two steaming-hot coffees waited for her. The usual barista who waited on her and looked barely out of high school lunged over when she saw Andy approach.

“Hi!” Her bright voice shot through the steam, chatter, and name-calls of the morning. “Managed to get your orders done early this time, Andy.”

“Not too early, I hope?” Andy asked, one eyebrow arched, but her smirk softened the tone.

“No no,” the bleached-blonde and obviously makeup-savvy girl laughed. “I’d never mess that up. Please tell her hello. From a fan!”

Andy couldn’t help but chuckle under her breath. She’d never get used to the fashion aficionados who always died when they heard who she worked for.

“Sure will,” Andy replied. “See you tomorrow, Tori.”

With both cups slightly searing her palms, even through the cardboard sleeves, Andy sped outside again and just in time too because a silver Mercedes on 85th street seemed just about to cross Madison. She walked over to the corner, somehow clutched both cups with one hand, and as the Mercedes slowed rather than stopped, she pulled the heavy door open and sank down into the backseat.

“What are you wearing?”

Miranda’s sunglasses shielded her eyes from view, and her voice hummed in its usual low timbre. Andy couldn’t gauge how to approach this question. Did Miranda want an explanation? Or was this just a rhetorical question that could go unanswered?

The seconds ticked by.

“It’s a Calvin Klein—,” Andy began.

“You look like a Gap advertisement,” Miranda responded, still keeping her voice noncommittal. “Why the neutrals? Have I taught you nothing?”

_Well, it was actually Nigel who taught me everything_ , Andy thought, but thankfully kept it to herself.

“I thought it looked professional,” Andy explained, while pulling back her coat to show the crisp, white button-down shirt. “More suitable for—”

“For the humdrum librarians and dusty researchers we spend our days with?”

Andy wanted to reply in the affirmative, but felt that might be the wrong answer.

Miranda took on her new position at the Met’s Costume Institute almost as soon as they returned from Paris. To be more accurate, she probably filled the position during that second week in Paris, as she and Andy extended their stay to meet with various museums and collectors and then the fashion houses themselves once the shows ended. In just a week, they managed to pivot a career disaster into a fashion icon’s reinvention. The transition from editor to curator felt seamless to all the blogs, gossip columns, and entertainment news analysts watching. Miranda transformed from dragon and devil to a phoenix rising from the ashes.

The truth, however, was far less glamorous. Andy couldn’t remember a more hectic yet adrenaline-fueled week. Their meetings were stacked against each other at an almost nauseating rate. Not a few times, after their third or fourth sprint to the car of the day, Andy felt as if she were on the Amazing Race rather than working as a personal assistant. During the meetings, Miranda forged agreements with the notoriously suspicious and secretive French museums and fashion houses. Somehow, Miranda left each meeting with certain important pieces that would visit the Met’s Costume Institute for the next exhibition. And while they shuttled from one meeting to the next, Andy called publicists, bloggers, and journalists to give them the true spin on how and why Miranda Priestly left _Runway_ for a setting where her talents would find their fullest expression.

By the time each woman made it to their respective but attached suites each night, they barely wiped off the last hues of makeup before crashing onto their beds. Well, Andy “crashed,” as Miranda noted one night when she left her connecting door ajar and saw Andy sprawled like a starfish across her bed. Miranda rolled her eyes and slammed the door shut. The muffled scream from Andrea’s room and unmistakeable thud of a body dropping to the floor made her grin before she finally slipped into bed after another exhausting day.

A month and a half later, it still felt like they were on a combination treadmill and stairmaster. While the transition from editor to curator in the press went relatively smooth, the same couldn’t be said of that transition in reality. A museum was not a fashion magazine, and it seemed like the staff wanted to impress this upon the newcomers at every opportunity. While Miranda only felt this derision at a distance, Andy bore the brunt of these passive-aggressive reminders at practically every level of the staff. Even a security guard at the Met once questioned her presence. When Andy waved her pass in his face, he merely drawled, “Oh…that’s right.”

After weeks and weeks, Andy finally had enough. She knew they hated how both she and Miranda came to work, dressed more for a runway show than a day at the office. And if she were being honest, she thought they weren’t entirely wrong.

“We will _not_ adapt to them, Andrea,” Miranda continued. “ _They_ will adapt to _us_. When was the last time the Costume Institute had a show with even an ounce of perspective?”

“The eighties,” Andy responded as if by rote.

“Precisely! And their fashion sense seems to be stuck there too, both personally and artistically. Perhaps, if we lead by example, they’ll start to realize that the art they so cherish should also be lived in.”

Andy heard Nigel’s voice in her head: _what they did, what they created was greater than art because you live your life in it._ She needed to text Nigel to confirm their date for drinks this Friday. At this rate, she’ll need a few.

“I understand, Miranda. I’m just trying to minimize the judgement I feel rolling off them whenever I enter the room.”

Miranda raised a surprised eyebrow. “I thought you’d have gotten used to that after your first month at _Runway_.”

“Let’s just say I never thought the nerds would be meaner than the prom queens.”

Miranda sat still for a moment, then laughed softly at Andy’s comment. That was happening more often lately, and Andy couldn’t help the reflexive joy it gave her. Thanks to their new professional setting, they both slowly grew in league with one another. Whether a shared look across a boardroom or a quick trade of information in a hallway niche or an empty elevator, it was them against the others. So far, they’d kept their heads above water, but each day brought new challenges. Humor, Andy surprisingly found, seemed to be Miranda’s favorite response to the more exasperating moments.

“Don’t you know that’s what the movies get wrong about high school?” Miranda quipped back. “The smart ones are _always_ worse.”

Andy chuckled then too, until Miranda broke the mood.

“Roy, go around the block again. Put those down for now.” Miranda directed this second command to Andy, who placed their two coffees in Roy’s center console. “You’re lucky I mixed this three-piece today.”

After these muttered words, Miranda began doing something Andy wouldn’t have predicted in a hundred years. She’d seen this woman in lots of uncharacteristic situations over the past couple months, but this might take the cake.

Miranda pulled off her coat and blazer and draped both against the seat, then began unbuttoning her vest, which, Andy noted, was a textured and brilliantly-patterned fabric.

“An Arts and Crafts textile pattern,” Miranda explained, as she whipped off the vest and passed it to Andy, who had begun taking off her own coat. “They’ll love it if they actually get off their high horses for a moment.” Andy pulled it onto her arms, then let it hang on her shoulders and admired the pattern up close. “Untuck the shirt and button up the vest. The pants will have to do.” Andy looked down at the black cigarette pants and her most comfortable heels. She knew that Miranda would kill her in loafers, her initial choice for office-appropriate attire.

Miranda stared at her for a moment in her usual, assessing scan.

“Where’s that sewing kit you stow away in here?”

Andy pulled the box out from under Roy’s seat and passed it to Miranda, who then took the fabric scissors out and leaned over to Andy’s side of the car. Andy froze as Miranda grasped her shirt collar. She felt the back of Miranda’s thumb against her pulse, and Miranda must’ve noticed her erratic heartbeat because she briefly caught Andy’s shocked gaze before looking away and beginning to cut.

“What are you doing?!” Andy gasped.

“I’m making this look deliberate,” Miranda muttered.

“By cutting my blouse?!”

“Shirt. And yes, it’ll look more like a tunic.” Andy had to lean forward for Miranda to go all the way around, then start again from the other side. Once she finished, Miranda tossed the collar aside, and Andy was reminded of those period films, where the men had to button on their collars. Then, Miranda seemed to be fraying the cut edges slightly with her nails. “There. Now, take down that dreadful ponytail.”

Miranda moved away from Andrea, then leaned forward to grasp her coffee cup and take a sip. She watched Andrea pull down her hair and run her fingers through it, trying to put some body back into it and letting it cascade across her shoulders and around her neck. Miranda thought of Romanticism or even androgynous Shakespeare heroines as she looked at Andrea. She wondered what the girl would look like with her hair shortened into a pixie cut. She had the face for it, and there’d be less to distract from those eyes and lips.

Andy saw Miranda’s brow spasm into a frown suddenly, as if she’d swallowed the wrong coffee or noticed a disastrous error in a fashion spread.

“Does it look bad?” Andy asked, still pushing her bangs up and out.

Miranda merely shook her head slightly, then pulled on her jacket and coat again as they slowed to a stop in front of the Met. Andy quickly grabbed her coat and coffee, then leapt from the car as soon as they stopped.

“Thanks, Roy,” she called from outside and ran around the car to meet Miranda on the other side.

During their insane car ride, Andy had failed to notice Miranda’s full ensemble or whether it still made sense with a piece missing. Perhaps because of the vest, Miranda had worn a blouse that was decidedly more body conscious than usual. The fabric wrapped and ruched around her torso until finally twisting up her neck and finishing in a knot that looked almost like a separate scarf and billowed across the sharp lapels of her jacket. Miranda pulled her coat together as a late autumn gust shot down the street and colored her cheeks.

“I have a meeting with Andrew this morning,” Miranda rattled off and began walking, while Andy shook herself into gear and pulled her notebook out from her coat’s inner pocket. “While I’m in with them, find out when exactly the shipments from Chanel will be arriving, and check in with the other houses to make sure they’re still on schedule. RSVP ‘Yes’ to Marc’s party, but plan the usual quarter of an hour stay.”

They walked up the front steps into the museum’s main entrance as Miranda continued her usual morning soliloquy. From there, they weaved their way through a few galleries, then finally entered a narrow corridor that led them down towards the lower levels of the Met. For years, before _Runway_ took the Costume Institute under its wing, the fashion exhibitions took place in this basement. Low ceilings, terrible lighting, and a maze in and out, yet Diana Vreeland still managed to create the first thematized collections from a study of Balenciaga to an homage to the Ballets Russes. Now, the basement held the Costume Institute’s main offices, and the yearly exhibitions were allowed in the upper galleries.

The basement never lost its “charm” though. Miranda kept spouting out instructions, but now Andy walked behind her as they squeezed past a seemingly endless array of light gray cubicles, many of which were adorned with snapshots of clothes and accessories. Rather than a run-through and a “book,” Miranda now studied and critiqued collected photos tacked onto a hall of mid-90s cubicles.

She stopped abruptly in that moment after one such photo caught her eye. Thankfully, Andy had perfected her peripheral version over the past six months and also came to a halt. Miranda stared at the photo in question of a seemingly nondescript 1930s-era skirt and blouse. She ripped the photo from its tack, passed it to Andrea, and gritted, “Tell them, ‘No.’”

Andy placed the photo in her notebook, but not without taking a look first. She rolled her eyes, already predicting this conversation with the researchers.

“Miranda, they’re just going to say what they did last time.”

“That’s not acceptable.”

Miranda rounded another corner and came to a row of windowless offices, where she entered the first one. Two more offices remained on the corridor, but their doors were shut. Andy grabbed Miranda’s coat and purse, placing them in the makeshift closet she’d fashioned out of a large storage cabinet during their first week here.

“I’m having lunch with the reps from the Brooklyn Museum today, so make sure Roy’s aware. I’ll meet him at the side entrance. I don’t need the noxious fumes of hot dogs to follow me for the rest of the day.”

Andy’s mind immediately shifted to lunch, which now certainly included a hot dog.

“I saw that on your schedule. Why wasn’t I aware?”

“They called me direct last night. Apparently, there’s some issue.”

“Again? What is it with those people?”

“I have no idea, but I’m getting that costume collection whether they like it or not.”

“Am I going with you?”

“No,” Miranda answered. “I need you here. That’s all.”

Andy nodded and took her last notes, then made herself scarce. She retraced the path she’d just walked, but took a different turn at the corner and pushed through a set of double doors. Her heels clicked against the concrete flooring and sounded in dull echoes down a corridor often used to transfer pieces from the archives to a department or between departments. She finally found the room she needed and entered.

Half a dozen researchers and curatorial assistants milled around the room, some wearing what looked like lab coats and white gloves. Earlier this week, the archival assistants began pulling clothes from the hermetically-sealed boxes they were usually kept in. Andy loved this part of the process and had her hand slapped away from the clothes on a number of occasions as they were first unboxed. She’d seen a lot of beautiful separates during her time at _Runway_ , but when she looked at these clothes, she finally understood why the fashionistas used an art word like “pieces” so much.

“What are you doing here?”

And so it begins. The question, muttered by one of the collections management assistants, nearly launched Andy into an exasperated eyeroll before she reined in her reaction. Besides, she felt like she had a potential ally in the man who made this remark, and she hoped the question had more sarcasm in it than spite. He actually reminded her of James Holt, the same copper skin, light eyes, and close-cropped hair, but George was like the museum variety. Glasses and freckles were added.

“Good morning, George,” she responded brightly. “I thought I’d check in on the unboxing progress. I heard yesterday that we’d be getting our first look at the mid-Victorian pieces. Is that still happening?”

In response, George merely pointed his finger towards the other side of the room, where two large boxes still sat unopened, each with large red, triangular stickers on them. Andy recognized them as warnings even from across the room.

“Those are the ones—”

“With the arsenic-dyed fabric, yeah.” George stopped jotting down notes and gazed at her from beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. “We really should be handling them in a separate room, but the other departments say we’re already taking up too much space as it is.”

“Really?” Andy protested. “Well, you know, I can probably—”

“Tattle on them to mommy and see what she could do?” George teased with a smirk. “Trust me, we’ve tried. And if they won’t listen to Andrew or Harold, the actual curators, then they won’t listen to her.”

Andy nevertheless noted this problem down. Some people didn’t realize that talking things over was rarely the way Miranda achieved her goals. Moving some money around and strategically using contacts, however, was a much more common and successful way of getting things done. Just one of the many lessons Miranda had passed down during their time together.

“We’ll see,” Andy responded. “Any idea where Alison is?”

“In her office,” George answered. “But I’d give her some time. She wasn’t too happy about how we’re handling those pieces. It’s not her jurisdiction, of course, but I get it.”

“Noted.”

Andy left the stark-white room and returned to the hall of cubicles, one of which belonged to her. When they’d first arrived, Miranda tried to get her a space nearer to her own office, but the cramped basement maze left little room for an additional space. Andy didn’t mind and enjoyed the chance to get her own desk that wasn’t right in the middle of the action.

She collapsed into her chair with a sigh of relief and cleared a path amidst the post-its, notebooks, and polaroids for her coffee and morning notes. She tapped her space bar twice to get her computer running and pulled a breakfast bar from her cabinet stash. While chomping down on that and sipping her latte, she did an overview of her notes from yesterday afternoon and this morning, mentally prioritizing her to-do list for the day.

Andy’s cubicle also held small signs of her personality that would’ve never flied on her _Runway_ desk. A framed picture with her parents on graduation day and a card from her sister, congratulating her on the new museum job, sat close together. Two months ago, had she possessed a desk like this, a picture of her and Nate would’ve likely joined the group, but now her desk’s focus on family said, “I’m single,” quite clearly.

When she returned from Paris, Nate made an attempt to continue their conversation from that night at Lily’s show opening. Then, he’d added some news. While she was away, he took an interview at a restaurant in Boston, and his eyes looked up into hers hopefully as he mentioned the new opportunity, a new city, a fresh start. Something in Andy snapped at his assuming look, and she finally spilled everything that’d happened in Paris — from Miranda losing her job and starting a new one all the way to Christian Thompson and Andy’s night-long lapse of judgement. Nate’s face grew colder with each new bit of information until he declared that “this” was finished. They then discussed what to do with their apartment, and she saw him for the last time a couple days later.

Andy thought the break would hurt, but she felt nothing. It wasn’t a troubling kind of nothing, not a stupor or a numbness. Instead, she felt as if all the new experiences and people and places in her life crowded out the place where an emptiness might’ve been. When your life propelled forward, it was difficult to look back and take a moment to mourn. Maybe one day it’d hit her, like all those pop psycho-babble books say, but for right now she felt okay. If anything, it was the loss of her friends that bugged her, especially between her time at work and her time at home. Since those moments lasted less than an hour each day though, she didn’t pay it much attention.

She spent the next couple hours answering emails and getting in touch with fashion houses, collections, and archives on both sides of the Atlantic. Last week they’d started reaching out to the London collections, which made Paris look like a cakewalk. While the French’s love of fashion made them difficult to work with at times, the British obsession with keeping museum collections on their own soil was staggering and, Andy thought, rather ironic. They needed McQueen for this exhibition though or else it would be a laughing stock, given the theme.

Andy glanced up at her desk calendar and grimaced. As November dawned, December’s deadlines loomed. She hoped they’d be able to get everything in by then. After that, the focus needed to rest on the exhibition space itself and the Gala.

Midway through the day and when she felt her eyelids beginning to stick to her screen-dried eyes, Andy decided to try Alison again.

Alison Lin was the senior research associate at the Costume Institute, and after a few testy run-ins with Miranda, Andy had taken over communications with her. She was more a creature of the museum than the Costume Institute, since her time at the Met’s other departments preceded her move to fashion. She was perhaps the main reason why Andy wanted to tone down her wardrobe, but now she could only tug on her shirt and pull at her collarless collar as she walked toward Alison’s office.

“They should adapt to us,” Andy muttered to herself, then rounded another corner and knocked lightly at Alison’s open door.

“Yes?” She asked, keeping her eyes trained on her computer screen.

“Good morning,” Andy replied. “How’s your day going so far?”

“Not great. What can I do for you?”

“Yeah, I heard about the dresses,” Andy commented. “We shouldn’t have to put our research assistants at risk like that, not to mention the interns who barely follow the proper procedures in the first place.”

Alison’s gaze finally moved towards Andy, who kept her brow furrowed and her lips thinned in critique. The researcher didn’t know what to do with this one. Since the moment she and her boss arrived, all involved expected two airheads to suddenly descend upon their carefully organized machine and turn it into a circus.

And yet, Miranda might be their best addition since Andrew arrived. She never took no for an answer, and while that was frustrating when the whispered negative was directed towards them, it wielded more power to the other departments, museums, and collectors they worked with. Meanwhile, her assistant seemed smart, too smart for a mere gopher. In her press releases and orders over email, Andy filtered her boss’s attitude into clear, decisive, and concise prose. There were no excuses or explanations, just demands for what _must_ happen if the Met or the Costume Institute wanted to keep or create their reputation. As much as it pained her and her colleagues to admit it, these two made formidable allies.

“I’m writing an email to the Egyptian department now to see if they can lend us some space,” Alison said. “I used to work there, so I’m hoping they’ll do me a favor.”

Thinking with Miranda’s mind, Andy didn’t like the tone Alison used to describe the email and doubted that a “favor” would get a response.

“Why don’t you let me do it?” Andy asked. “I can write it from Miranda’s desk to the departments that are actually taking _our_ designated space, and it’ll seem more like we’re shocked that this would be happening in the first place. I can make it look like they’re forcing us to flout proper procedure. …Which they are!”

Alison stared at Andy for a few more moments, then nodded. “Let’s do that.”

“Great! Then, we can save your Egypt connection for when we really need it. Maybe to steal some exhibition space?”

Alison responded to Andy’s grin by turning her attention back to her computer, but she filed that idea away for her next meeting with Stephanie, the assistant curator. She thought that was all from Andy, but she kept sitting there, waiting for another chance to speak. Alison merely raised her eyebrows in question.

“Look, I know we’ve already had this conversation before, but…”

Andy pulled a polaroid out of her notebook and laid it on the desk. Alison took a cursory glance at it, then forgot her earlier musings and remembered why she often wanted to choke these two newcomers.

“This is a museum exhibition, Andy,” she explained. “And as such, there needs to be some semblance of historical accuracy. Featuring the American 1920s, then skipping to the 1940s is not only inaccurate, it’s insensitive. The Great Depression happened, and it would be ridiculous not to show it.”

“I understand,” Andy replied. She really did get their perspective and wondered why Miranda didn’t want any reference to the entire decade. She wasn’t here for her own opinions though; she had to represent Miranda’s. “But is there a way to come to some compromise? Your insistence on historical accuracy is important, but let’s be honest here: the Great Depression doesn’t go with our theme.”

“Yeah, because women were too busy trying to stave off starvation and eviction to be femme fatales.”

“Well, that’s not exactly our premise, is it? Women often didn’t willingly become femme fatales; they were forced into these roles, usually by male-dominated media.” Alison remained quiet then, waiting for Andy to continue, so Andy thought of another part of the exhibition and ran with it. “Think of our section on the French Revolution. We could’ve just made it all about the poor working woman, as you all initially wanted, but then we talked about the propaganda against Marie Antoinette, how she became a scapegoat. We’re making an important political statement, while still featuring show-stopping pieces from our French partners.”

“So, you’re wondering if there’s a Marie Antoinette for the Great Depression?”

“Actually, that’s exactly it!” Andy made a show of an epiphany, anything to make the researchers feel like they came up with a bright idea.

“I’ll talk to my historians,” Alison finally offered. “In the meantime, put that picture back on the wall. When we find a replacement, we’ll pin it up. That’s how this process works.”

“Of course! I just wanted to show you what I was referencing. I’ll put it back on my way out.”

And with that, Andy got up to leave, trying to hide the smile on her face at the thought of Miranda’s reaction to her finally getting the “ugly suit” off the board.

“Nice waistcoat, by the way,” Alison offered to Andy’s back. She hadn’t noticed before and blurted the compliment once Andy stood and she got a good look. “William Morris.”

Andy smiled in full now and didn’t try hiding it. “Thanks! I have it on loan,” she laughed and left Alison puzzled as to what she meant and fearing that she was, in fact, _wearing_ a real Morris textile. She scoffed at the thought and went back to her emails.

Glancing down at her watch, Andy realized it was well past lunch time and only stopped on her way out to place the photo back on the board and grab her wallet. She took the stairs up to the main gallery floor and passed through the Greek and Roman sculpture section. She loved this room with its natural light and larger-than-life statues, but she had more pressing needs at the moment.

She finally made it to a hot dog cart outside, paid for one, then loaded it up with her favorite toppings. She tried not to indulge in this fast lunch all the time, but Miranda’s comment had put it in her head. She took her hot dog to a bench at the entrance of Central Park and ate it with delight. Not a few times she had to quickly move away to dodge a falling drop of ketchup or relish. She swallowed her last bite and breathed in a deep sigh of satisfaction, then tossed the wrapping paper in a nearby waste basket.

Andy wondered how Miranda had fared over in Brooklyn as she looked out on the mix of tourists and New Yorkers venturing into the park. Weeks before, she might’ve wondered why Miranda would have her stay behind. At _Runway_ , Miranda rarely went to a meeting without either Emily or herself to tag along and take notes. This freed up Miranda and helped accentuate the air of indifference that she cultivated during most designer visits or business meetings. Since they returned from Paris, however, Andy’s role as assistant seemed to expand. Yes, she still had to fetch coffee and organize Miranda’s schedule, but she was also given responsibilities that often befitted an associate or a second in command.

“I’ll need you to be my eyes and ears,” Miranda explained after the first time she left Andy behind at the museum or told her to attend a meeting of research associates and curatorial assistants. In other words, Andy thought then, she needed her to be a spy, take notes, and report back. And yet, Miranda never asked for her notes. Instead, she asked what Andy’s plans were after attending said meeting. Miranda trusted her to make the choices necessary in her stead.

After a few more times, Andy finally settled into this weird role somewhere between an assistant and...a partner. If anything, her interactions with Miranda reminded her most strikingly of Miranda’s interactions with Nigel back at _Runway_ , right down to the snarky jokes and back-talk on her end. Nigel was less an employee than a collaborator, and Andy wondered whether she were moving into a similar role.

As Andy sat breathing in the crisp air, the thought finally settled into her bones, and she realized that this was something new and different. She was moving forward, moving up, and for some reason Miranda wanted to help her get there. Andy only hoped she’d like it once she arrived wherever “there” was. If the smell of fresh ink on a newsstand still captivated her, drawing her notice during free moments between meetings or journeying back from a pick-up, then so be it. She’d get back to that soon, once this all settled.

Andy stood after another fifteen minutes enjoying the outdoors, stretched her arms, and finally turned back to the museum and entered the maze of its galleries. This time, she entered the lower level through the Egyptian galleries, so as to more easily make a pit stop at Miranda’s office, expecting her to have arrived already since Andy had taken her lunch later than usual.

Unsurprisingly, Miranda sat at her desk, finishing a phone call, when Andy walked in and took a seat across from her. Miranda gazed up at the girl and hoped she’d made some progress with that curatorial issue earlier. She had a smile on her face, so Miranda suspected something went well. Either that or her assistant was in a cheery mood, which she found doubtful.

They rarely spoke of their personal lives, but Miranda knew that Andrea also returned to an empty home each night. And through overheard conversations and what she needled from Nigel, it seemed that Andrea’s social life centered upon Nigel, phone chats with her sister, and whatever solitary pursuits she fit in to her weekends, whether a movie or a book. They two were living similar but parallel lives. At least Miranda had Caroline and Cassidy, but when they weren’t home the yawning silence of her home set her on edge. She certainly didn’t miss Stephen, his whining or his drunken bouts of ridicule, but those late hours or sleepless nights threatened her equanimity sometimes. She wondered how Andrea managed that solitude every night.

“Any news?” Miranda asked once she ended her call with the girls’ school.

“Yes, actually,” Andy answered. “We need a Marie Antoinette for the Depression. If we think of one, we can nix the suit.”

Miranda thought it a smart solution and wondered whether it came from some assistant curator or Andrea herself. The still-present smile on Andrea’s face seemed to answer this question. Miranda wanted to commend her for the smart idea, but she was trying to limit herself to one compliment a week. She’d already wasted that yesterday when Andy’s quick thinking had saved a seemingly lost contact at Dior.

“I’ll jot down some initial ideas, and you can begin to check the research and look for some lesser known names.”

Andy nodded and pulled out the laptop she kept stashed in Miranda’s office for moments like this. Because if they weren’t getting work done through a divide and conquer method — Miranda taking meetings inside and outside the museum, while she stayed behind and solved problems — they were partnering up to transform a days’ job into an afternoon’s task. Andy loved this part of the job. It reminded her of pulling sources together for a story, only now the story was a museum exhibition rather than words on a page. Once again, she tried not to think about whether she missed writing those words and turning cold research into a passionate call to action.

As Andy logged in to the museum’s online research gateway and began opening a few different databases, Miranda scrawled names or movements onto a piece of embossed stationary lying between them. Miranda would have an idea, check the chronological accuracy with a quick Google search, then add it to the list. Andy then began working her way down the list from the top, turning Miranda’s seeming encyclopedic knowledge of fashion history into peer-reviewed articles and book-length studies. Once Miranda finished brainstorming, she then also began researching the names from the bottom up. When they met in the middle, they traded notes and findings, usually landing on two or three main contenders. They then downloaded the articles or rented out the books from the museum library and divided the readings for, what Andy called, their “homework.”

After only a month, they had the system down to a science, so while their new coworkers, ranging from a research assistant to Andrew Bolton and Harold Koda, scoffed at their clothes or personal demeanors, they couldn’t hide a begrudging respect whenever the two newcomers brought well-researched and comprehensive studies on a subject to a morning meeting.

And when they were caught up in research mode, Miranda and Andy often partook in conversations that mixed professional and personal. This part is what made this time Miranda’s favorite actually.

“Was that Dalton on the phone?” Andy began now, for instance. She was starting to get comfortable asking Miranda questions, whether they ranged from critiques or clarifications to just casual smalltalk like this.

“Yes,” Miranda replied, “Imbeciles. They claim the girls have been late each day this week when I’ve personally dropped them off before coming here, thus making their supposed tardiness an impossibility.”

Andy bit her lip and thought of the Starbucks that had just opened up around the corner from Dalton and how she’d noticed a spike in morning coffees on Miranda’s personal account. Andy would wager that the girls were treating themselves and not a few friends to the latest sugary concoction currently on the seasonal menu. She’d try to warn them about Dalton’s call next time they were alone and maybe introduce them to Starbucks’s rewards program.

“In my day,” Andy began, “It took a lot more than a few tardies to warrant a call home.”

“Ah yes, weren’t those in the days of chalk boards, corporal punishment, and miles-long walks to a schoolhouse in the Ohio snow?”

“Ha Ha,” Andy sarcastically responded.

“I always wonder at your generation’s ability to somehow act like half-baked adults and yet talk like octogenarians.”

“I blame the hipsters. Speaking of which: Brooklyn?”

“Don’t even get me started,” Miranda groaned, while scrawling another name onto the paper. “Today they just wanted to go over some final details regarding the contract. When I asked why my presence was needed for something that our respective legal teams could have handled, they failed to offer a satisfactory answer. After that, I declared that if I did not receive a call by end-of-day agreeing to our terms, then our current agreement, including the museum’s generous monetary offer, would be rescinded and transferred to another interested party.”

“How did they react to that?” Andy gasped.

“I don’t know. I left the room before they could respond.”

Andy laughed to herself and shook her head, and since Andy’s eyes were on her computer screen, she missed Miranda’s small smile and mirthful gaze.

Somehow, Miranda’s actions never scared Andy or put her off. If that ever happened, Miranda thought, then she would know that she’d gone too far. She hoped she’d never be painted in a corner that would cause her to lash out in a way that would diminish Andrea’s respect for her. Despite her concentrated repression, these moments triggered Miranda’s thoughts to return to her original plan for keeping a hold on _Runway_. She wondered what Andrea would’ve made of that traitorous machination, but never dared linger on the thought. It only revealed two disturbing thoughts: she would’ve done it, had circumstances gone her way; and she cared entirely too much about what her assistant thought of her.

“There’s an issue with the poisoned dresses,” Andy ventured, after saving some articles on Mae West. Miranda hummed in response, and Andy recognized it as her “continue” hum. She described the problem with archival real estate and how the other departments were being more difficult than usual. “I told Alison that we’d take care of it.”

“And how would _we_ do that?” Miranda raised an eyebrow in question.

“Uh…,” Andy bought some time, realizing that she’d hoped Miranda would just take care of it. George’s comment about tattling to mommy came to mind, so she bit her bottom lip and brazened through an idea. “Alison wanted to ask for some more space from the Egyptian department, but they seem to think they run the place. And they really look down on us. So maybe we could ask one of the lesser-known departments for help? We’d get what we need, and they might see it as making a connection to one of the more publicized departments.”

“What department did you have in mind?” Miranda prompted, refusing to throw Andy a final bone here.

Andy thought for a moment, going through her mental map of the museum and its departments.

“The Arabian department?”

“Too small. They already lack space of their own, far be it from us to take that little bit away.”

“Then, the American department,” Andy ventured and feeling certain of it as soon as she said it. “They have the space, and I always feel like that whole section is empty of visitors.”

“Send them one of your emails tomorrow, and we’ll go from there.”

Andy nodded, feeling like she passed another test. Barely, maybe, but it still felt nice. After that, they each descended into a mutual trance, making comments of only a few words about certain promising leads or dead ends, and the hours passed smoothly until Andy looked up and realized it was already a quarter past six. Andy gasped and rubbed at her eyes.

“Looks like Brooklyn’s taking a pass,” Andy commented and pointed at the clock.

As if her words cast a spell, Miranda’s office phone began to ring.

“I’ve always held the theory that there’s a time change when you cross the East River,” Miranda calmly commented. “You take it. Tell them I’ve already left.”

Miranda watched Andrea hesitantly take the phone from its cradle and answer, “Miranda Priestly’s office,” as she had countless times before. “She’s left for the day,” and Miranda heard the voice on the other end get louder. “It was my understanding that she asked for a decision by end-of-day, which was,” Miranda’s smirk grew as she watched Andy look at an invisible watch on her wrist, “Over an hour ago.” Then Andy responded with a half-dozen noncommittal hums to a litany of excuses. “I see. Well, the best I can do for now is take down your message and let her know some time tomorrow. I’m sorry that I can’t make any promises.” And in that last sentence, Andy added a touch of her down-home pitying tone. “Have a nice evening!”

Andy dropped the phone back into its cradle, then clapped her hands together. “We now have the Brooklyn Museum’s costume collection.”

Any other boss and Andy might’ve offered a high-five, but she nonetheless treasured the smile that spread across Miranda’s face, making her look like the cat that caught the canary. They’d both been working at this since they arrived, and it was one of the last collections on their list of must-haves.

“Let’s end our day on that note,” Miranda said and saved the last PDF before shutting down her computer. Andy quickly revised their list, which had narrowed down to about four main contenders, and fetched Miranda’s bag and coat.

Andy followed Miranda, who stopped obligingly at Andy’s cubicle and waited for her to gather her own things. As she did, Miranda decided to follow an impulse that had been tempting her for days now.

“Would you like to join us for dinner?” Andy froze at Miranda’s question. “I believe we’re having Thai curry tonight if you’re interested, and perhaps we could celebrate finally landing Brooklyn.”

Andy pulled the rest of her body into her coat slowly as she processed this request. She’d spent many an evening at the townhouse, but always as an afterthought or to drop off something from work.

“I’d love to,” Andy replied, before she could overthink it.

Miranda nodded, and they both continued out of the office, up the stairs, and into the slowly darkening Egyptian wing. Miranda snuck a peek at one of her favorite cabinets, full of jewelry pulled from a noblewoman’s sarcophagus, while Andy muttered her usual, “Gross,” at one of the mummies. They passed through the lobby and finally emerged onto Fifth Avenue.

“Say, who’s William Morris?” Andy asked as they walked towards the car, remembering the compliment Alison offered at the end of their meeting. 

“A textile designer,” Miranda responded and pointed at Andy’s — well, really _her_ — waistcoat. “ _That_ textile designer.”

“Oh, interesting. This is a recreation of one of his prints?”

“No, Andrea,” she said as Roy emerged from the car and opened the door at her approach. “That _is_ one of his prints. It came in the latest shipment from the V&A.”

Andy halted in shock, while Miranda placed one foot in the car, but leaned against the door to watch her assistant’s full reaction.

“I’m not—,” Andy’s chest seemed to cave into itself, as if she were wearing vomit rather than a work of art. “You’re not saying—”

“Being surrounded with beautiful clothes all day and not taking advantage here and there?” Miranda smirked, finally crouching into the car. “I thought a former Closet raider might see the fun in that.”

Andy stood on the sidewalk, staring at the closed car door, then shifting her gaze to the vest’s buttons, the frayed seams, the faded lining, and everything that declared this wasn’t made yesterday. She then remembered all those dollops of ketchup and relish that barely missed her during lunch.

Andy faintly heard a car window rolling down.

“Get in the car, Andrea. I’m not going to be late for dinner because you decided to turn into a mannequin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments, kudos, and subscriptions for the first chapter! I hope you all enjoyed this one, and please feel free to share your thoughts and hopes for future chapters. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah yeah, I know I said a chapter a week. I don't know about you guys though, but I could use a distraction during ~all this~. Here's something to get you through the weekend. :) Thanks again for all the comments so far!

Miranda hired Isabella Ruiz last month when she and Andrea realized they needed another person to help once they started working on the Gala itself. Andrea had done some research, then scheduled three candidates for meetings with Miranda. Isabella came out leagues ahead and was instantly offered the Director of Special Projects position. It didn’t hurt that she had a team of assistants and PR pros to help boost the push towards Gala night. Over the years Isabella made a name for herself across New York City, curating and hosting the most dazzling benefits, galas, and charity events, so the decision was a no-brainer.

Since then, however, Miranda felt unsettled. Hiring Isabella reminded her that Andrea still held a nameless position and a pitiful salary to match. What with the rush to transfer their work over to the Met and the daily crises that followed, she’d let the days turn to weeks and then to months without tending to this problem that she remembered every time Roy stopped to drop Andrea off before heading to the townhouse after a worknight that went too long.

Andrea lived on a street that Miranda wouldn’t be caught dead walking through, much less renting an apartment on. Miranda also knew that the lack of a boyfriend only made rent more difficult and moving to a safer neighborhood practically impossible. And yet Andrea smiled her goodnight when slipping from the car and waving from the sidewalk before pulling a steel door open on its rusty hinges and disappearing from view. By the time Miranda entered her own Upper East Side home and was greeted by the girls and Patricia, she often forgot the sounds of abandoned New York streets and squeaky doors.

With Isabella and her team’s introduction to their working group, Miranda couldn’t forget anymore, and she set to work on ensuring that Andrea would finally gain a position worthy of the highly satisfactory work she’d been completing since that first day after their afternoon’s stroll in Paris. After a long and at times contentious discussion with Alison, where Miranda reminded her where her department in particular would be without Andrea’s input, research, and correspondence, she’d finally carved out a new role for Andrea. And although she wouldn’t admit to it, Alison seemed pleased at the prospect of working more closely with Andrea, but of course buried this reaction with a discussion of all the training and classes Andrea would have to attend. Miranda had rolled her eyes then, but now looked forward to sharing the news with Andrea that evening after their meeting to discuss the Gala’s dinner set-up.

Miranda usually liked to keep her work separate from her home, but given the already crowded and hectic nature of the Met’s dungeon-like offices, Miranda set this evening’s meeting for the townhouse’s dining room. Both she and Isabella stood at the table, looking at this first draft of a dinner setting. Isabella flipped her long ink-black hair back and placed a hand firmly on her waist, currently enveloped in the floral sash of a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress.

“Well, this is…,” Isabella mused aloud, drawing Miranda out of her reveries and pulling her back to the present issue. She scanned the table setting that featured silver censers on a stark white table cloth made of satin. The black napkins broke up the white, while the center pieces were glass vases each holding a single lily.

“It looks like the decor for a wedding,” Miranda intoned. “A sad wedding.”

Isabella snorted and looked towards the Hollywood production designers who turned pale as they stood in the corner, waiting for their judgement. They’d outsourced the decor and overall design of the party to this twin brother duo, thinking that their film aesthetic would pair well with the femme fatale idea. Obviously, this was a bad idea.

“What’s the inspiration behind this?”

Miranda crossed her arms as she asked the question, then leveled the two men with a glare that had shattered the self-worth of many a fashion designer. When they hesitated before speaking, Miranda placed one hand beneath her chin and waited.

“Well, you see,” the slightly taller one began in an overly-clipped London accent that Miranda felt certain was forced. “We looked at a few old movies.”

“A few _old movies_?”

“Yes,” the other one answered. Miranda hadn’t bothered learning their names. Where had they dug up these two, anyway? Miranda reminded herself never to trust her West Coast contacts again.

“Please,” Miranda encouraged, “Share which ones.”

They both made almost identical shows of thinking and trying to remember at least one title. They looked at one another, obviously telepathically begging the other to come up with something. Miranda had seen this vaudeville act countless times when Caroline and Cassidy were caught in a lie and hoped the other would pull an adequate alibi out of thin air.

“Let’s see,” the short one cleared his throat. “There was the one with the brunette who wore the…”

“I’ll stop you right there,” Miranda intoned. “And let me guess: this drab color scheme came from the black and white of these _films_ you supposedly watched and studied?”

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum instantly turned the same shade of red.

“I figured.”

Miranda moved over to Isabella and began whispering her order to fire these two, then they’d start from scratch with another pair of eyes. Miranda and Isabella spoke in undertones as the two idiots shifted back and forth, not even having the wherewithal to instantly begin brainstorming new ideas to save themselves.

Meanwhile, the front door opened, and Miranda heard a familiar voice saying, “Hey Patty! Hey girl! You miss me?” She could envision Andrea on her knees, ruffling up her dog’s immaculately groomed fur. A few moments later, Andrea walked down the hallway and into the dining room, taking stock of the scene. Her eyes travelled to the table setting, and Miranda watched her grimace before she could help herself.

“I didn’t know they had dinners at funerals,” Andy quipped.

Miranda’s eyes lit up before she moved toward Andy and rested a hand on her shoulder. She loved this pose, which had been growing more and more frequent over the past few weeks. Andy wanted to reach up and grasp Miranda’s forearm, but she resisted the impulse, as she’d resisted many such impulses before.

“Yes, it appears our two production designers work part-time as morticians,” Miranda responded and slowly turned her eyes from Andy towards the corner where Liam and Lawrence — stupid names, Andy always thought — cowered together. “Oh forgive me, gentlemen, I forgot you were there. You may go now.”

Lawrence, if Andy remembered their names correctly, instantly moved towards the exit, while the shorter one Liam held his ground for a moment.

“We put work into this,” he began. Andy heard Isa mutter something in Spanish and saw Miranda’s eyes flash in a manner that, back at _Runway_ , usually meant someone was about to get eviscerated.

“And we appreciate it, Liam,” Andy spoke before Miranda could. “But if you read your contract properly, you would know that you were brought in as a consultant and payment was only promised for a satisfactory final product. This is neither satisfactory nor final. We’ll do you the favor of not notifying others about this.”

Andy felt Miranda’s eyes cut towards her in a glare, but she held her ground. These two were obvious snobs, but they were also very young. They’d taken a chance on a fresh perspective and found it too green for the picking. That didn’t mean they’d never learn though.

Liam’s face grew even more red and his lips thinned until they were practically invisible. He shook his head, then began to march out. As he walked past them, he spat, “Bitches.”

Instantly, Andy regretted her kind act. She moved back and let the wolf have him. She wasn’t disappointed.

“There’s only one of those in here, I’m afraid,” Miranda drawled in her lowest and deadliest tone. “And unfortunately for you, she’s the one who has every contact in Hollywood at her fingertips. I hope you enjoy your career as a party planner to social-climbing imbeciles in some godforsaken California suburb.”

Lawrence finally hauled his dumbfounded brother out, and Andy wondered whether he’d kill him before Miranda could do her worst. The sound of the door slamming behind them ended the scene.

“That was unexpected,” Andy remarked once the slam echoed down the hall.

“Was it?” Isa responded. “You could tell he hated working for women since the first meeting.”

“Then why did we hire them?” Andy asked.

“Because if we refused every latent misogynist that darkens our doors,” Miranda explained, “We’d never get anything done.” Andrea bit her lip and looked downcast. Sometimes Andrea’s optimism towards others cheered Miranda, but today it grated. She hadn’t wanted to completely blacklist the boy; Andrea was right to give him a chance. She didn’t need her girl Friday’s disappointed face at the end of it, though. “Foolish of him to say it out loud. Most people stopped doing that years ago.”

Isabella chuckled in camaraderie, remembering her own brushes with inflated egos during her career. Both she and Miranda were older and veterans at dealing with men professionally, and once again Andy felt like the new kid on the block who didn’t quite get the inside joke.

She’d been feeling that way since they hired Isa. Andy adored her and felt incredibly thankful for her presence because the workload was already unmanageable before they began transitioning to Gala coordinations. She enjoyed Isa’s bold energy, which won over everyone from museum colleagues to outside partners, and Andy understood why she was one of the most sought-after social planners in the city. Not to mention the fact that before she planned the parties, Isabella Ruiz was renowned as a 1970s It Girl, a fixture at every major red carpet. She receded from a public life of runway front-rows, club openings, and VIP sections when she got married, but then emerged again years later and took advantage of her contacts at almost every level and every branch of entertainment. Now, she made more than publicity off of these connections.

Andy watched in envy as Isa skipped the usual months-long trial period a new hire endured with Miranda. She knew she shouldn’t have reacted this way. Isa was nothing but incredibly generous and kind to her, and Miranda’s actions towards Andy hadn’t changed a bit with the new additions of Isa and her team. Indeed, Miranda and she had even grown closer over the past month.

From that first impromptu drink and dinner at the townhouse, Andy became a pretty regular visitor. At first, Miranda made excuses for her to stick around after hours — an unfinished research session or a late-night call to a film archive in L.A. — but then sometimes Roy would just drop them both off at Miranda’s. When the girls were there, they would bring Andy up to speed on the latest school gossip or ask for extra help on their school project. “You know,” they’d smirk, “like you used to do.” Miranda usually sent them to bed after that. When it was just the two of them, Andy would enjoy dinner, a glass of wine, and even some conversation. Miranda would share old stories with her, and Andy would share some of her own, introducing Miranda to her family through anecdotes.

She’d feel so close to her in those moments, and Andy had spent many late nights staring at her own apartment’s cracked ceiling plaster and wondering where this was all going. When her heart dared to whisper the truth, she quickly turned off her bedside lamp and squeezed her eyes shut.

Miranda began picking her up in the mornings around this time too, and after one of these semi-sleepless nights, Andy would get into Miranda’s town car and stare out the window, for fear that those thoughts she couldn’t even admit to herself were written across her face. Andy tried not to get nervous when Miranda frowned at her initial chilly demeanor. After the ride in, she’d relax again, and Miranda would smile softly at her. One morning, she even whispered, “There you are,” when Andy laughed at a joke Miranda made at the expense of some street-style peacock passing them as they strolled through the park one morning. (Miranda had wanted to arrive slightly late to a meeting with the Museum’s department heads, so they wandered in the park for a quarter of an hour, wasting time.) After thawing out, Andy went back to normal, working with Miranda as any colleague would.

Then, she remembered Isa and scoffed at the thought that she’d ever be Miranda’s “colleague.” Isa was undoubtedly Miranda’s equal, worthy of dialogue and discussion, while Andy was still an assistant, a pitifully paid one at that, and she wondered how much longer she’d get by on just the hope of advancement. Or, to put it more plainly, on the hope that Miranda would one day see her as more than her girl Friday, as she once let slip. Miranda’s subsequent blush had drawn a smile from Andy for days after that, until the memory soured and reminded her only of their imbalanced dynamic.

Andy knew she was in a rut, so only some new faces and places would get her out of it. That’s what usually worked for her. In college, she’d joined some clubs and the university newspaper after a disastrous first year spent mostly in her dorm with her silent roommate. She thought of that recently and decided to search for any Northwestern alumni meet-ups in the city. She knew that was a thing, especially in New York, and after just a couple Google searches, she began reconnecting with other Northwestern grads on the nights that Miranda spent networking with socialites.

They usually met at bars, but other times they’d have daytime events around town. Sometimes, Andy felt as if she were part of some group for old people hoping to socialize, but she hadn’t felt this active since she moved to New York. She forgot how much it helped with stress and loneliness. As the weeks passed, her contacts grew, and she began meeting some people for their own hangouts, happy hours, and movie nights.

Along the way, she’d met Matthew. He introduced himself during a boozy brunch, and he instantly furrowed his brow at her as she began telling him about herself.

“Didn’t you end up running the newspaper? Like in ‘04 or ‘05?”

“Yes,” Andy suspiciously responded.

“Yeah! You’re like my grand-editor.” He’d had a lot of mimosas, so Andy was patient. “I edited in ‘99 and 2000.”

They hit it off after that. Matthew introduced her to his friends, which included his wife Angela. More than that, though, he pulled Andy into the network of newspaper journalists trying to work their way into staff positions all over the city. Matthew already had one such coveted position over at the _Mirror_. Andy enjoyed those social evenings, especially since she came home and fell peacefully to sleep, no contemplations of her ceiling’s cracks or willful repressions of impossible fantasies.

Over the past few days, however, she lost even that. It wasn’t a personal problem that kept her awake, but rather a professional one. Her networking had paid off, although she hadn’t consciously planned on it or even expected it in the slightest. She felt dumbstruck when she first heard the opportunity, but work and her evenings with Miranda distracted her from the full weight of it until now.

Andy wished this evening hadn’t started with Miranda promising vengeance on some jackass because she had planned on discussing the prospect with Miranda. She had hoped the decor meeting would go smoothly, but this was just the first thing that wouldn’t go Andy’s way tonight.

“I’ll get on the phone tomorrow with some friends I have in the theater district,” Isabella commented, while gathering her things. “I was also thinking of some club designers, but they usually tend tacky.”

Miranda hummed in assent. “Yes, let’s leave those as a last resort.”

“Por supuesto,” Isabella nodded. “I’m out of here, ladies. Got to make it downtown for a dinner with my husband and his partners. Wonderful show, as always, with you two.” She moved toward Miranda and pressed her cheek to hers in a farewell kiss, then did the same for Andy. They were both shocked the first time she did this, but now took it as a matter of course. It was a warmer version of the cold air kiss that New York’s upper classes gave, and Andy liked it more, while Miranda withstood it as a natural side effect of hiring the best. “Ciao!” Isabella called from the foyer after pulling on her coat and left.

Work for the day was officially done. The tension in Miranda’s shoulders immediately slackened, and she moved towards the kitchen, pressing Andy’s upper arm to turn and follow her. While Andy racked her brain to find the right opening for the talk they needed to have, Miranda began doing a mental inventory of the champagne she had on hand. Perhaps she could slip away as Andy did something or other, then quickly grab a bottle without it looking too suspicious.

“You shouldn’t blame Isa for that,” Andy began, noticing how Miranda relaxed slightly after Isa left.

“I’m not,” Miranda lightly replied. “I had another contact tell me those two were worth taking a chance on. We brought them on because they’d be cheaper. And that, Andrea, is what happens when you consider cost over quality. We were too,” and Miranda’s lips pursed, “conservative. It won’t happen again.”

“Noted,” Andy answered.

“Not that you have to, of course. This isn’t your area.”

Andy took the blow harder than she would’ve at another time. Her nerves were already on high alert and thus unprepared for a passing remark like this that reminded her of her place outside Miranda and Isa’s party.

Miranda noticed something rigid and unnatural in Andy’s demeanor. It simmered there since she first arrived, but now it practically radiated off her. She only meant to butter her up for the big reveal. Time to kick it into high gear then.

“Are Caroline and Cassidy at home?” Andy asked, once again beating her to speak.

“No, they’re with their father tonight and the rest of the weekend. So it’s just us. Order whatever you’d like for dinner; you know my preferences. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Miranda moved to make a getaway to the cellar, but Andy’s grasp held her by the elbow. She turned in surprise, and Andy instantly let go and moved away, blushing furiously and breathing rapidly.

“What’s wrong?” Miranda’s voice pitched slightly higher in concern. Andy had only ever heard Miranda speak in this tone when answering some emergency call from the girls’ school.

“I need to speak to you,” Andy declared after taking a deep breath.

“Likewise,” Miranda responded, “But why—”

“You go first.”

“No, please.” Something in Miranda clenched as she said these words. She knew somehow that she wouldn’t like what followed and that she needed to hear it all sooner rather than later.

Andy recalled all the opening lines she prepared over the past week. “I’ve had a new opportunity,” “I’m moving on,” and “You’ve been a great boss, but now...” all fell by the wayside though, and she began on a note she hadn’t planned on at all.

“You remember I was a newspaper editor in college, right?”

“Of course,” Miranda scoffed, obviously taken aback by the question. “Degree in journalism from Northwestern.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Well, I started hanging out with some alums last month.” Andy felt herself talking way too fast. She took another breath and forced herself to slow down. “They have different social events around the city. One of the other alums actually used to be one of my predecessors at the paper. He and I have been meeting outside the alumni gatherings, too.”

As Andy spoke, Miranda shifted towards one of the chairs at the marble island centered in her kitchen. Rather than sit, Miranda’s hand clenched around a finely-carved backrest, and her face set into stone not unlike the countertop. Andy wondered how Miranda seemed to already know where this conversation was heading.

“He works as a staff writer at the _New York Mirror_. A couple weeks ago he told me about a new opening for a junior reporter with room to grow into their investigative department. He put my name forward as a possible candidate and gave them my clippings.”

Miranda grows more pale as Andy speaks. She thought... She hadn’t expected this. And _this_ was somehow far worse. Moments before she thought she was losing only some errant personal hope, which she never stoked but nonetheless allowed to linger, a low glow amidst a few coals. She laughed at her ridiculous ideas every evening Andrea stayed for another drink or smiled at her for no reason. Now, however, she found the house she carefully built out of professional hopes for her protégée suddenly set aflame.

“They’ve reached out for an interview,” Andy continued, while Miranda stood silent and staring. “I wanted to speak to you about it first, though. And perhaps ask for…”

Andy hesitated. This would make everything so much more official and final.

“My recommendation?” Miranda bluntly asked. Andy shifted slightly, and Miranda raised her eyebrows in shock. “My blessing, too?”

“To be honest, I think I deserve both.” Andy declared, finally starting to lose her anxiety and speak more clearly. She’d already jumped off the high dive, so there was no use in fretting now.

Miranda scoffed in disbelief. She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream, especially since either impulse felt foreign. She merely scoffed again, a loud exhalation of breath somewhere between a gasp and a shocked guffaw, while pacing back toward the dining room. Despite her shock at Miranda’s highly uncharacteristic reactions, Andy moved to follow her, but then Miranda spun on a dime.

“So let me get this straight,” Miranda began, while walking back towards the brightly-lit kitchen. “You’ve been seeking other employment behind your current employer’s back. And before you actually go in for the interview and thus effectively drive the final nail into the coffin, you want my well wishes. Am I correct?”

“No,” Andy gasped. “I wasn’t ‘seeking’ other employment. This just happened. It fell into my lap.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “Then you can just as easily let it fall out of your lap.”

Moments passed. Both women could hear the ticking of the hall’s antique clock, and each second felt as if a gong sounded. If Andy thought starting the conversation was the leap from the high dive, this is where she breached the deep water. Miranda merely waited, feeling her heart pound against her chest.

“I don’t want to do that. I think I want to see this through, Miranda.”

“You _think_?” Miranda spat. “That’s awfully hesitant for a decision that’ll change the course of your professional future.”

Andy then stood taller and breathed deeply once again. She knew Miranda had always respected this, her ability to stare her down and stand her own ground.

“I want this,” she firmly said. “This is—,” Andy remembered a line from a lifetime ago, “This is what I came to New York to do.”

Miranda merely stares at her in response. Andy tries not to fidget, but she can’t help herself. She brushes her bangs back, then pushes them forward, then blows them out of her face, all while trying not to remember how Miranda had pulled them back the other day and told her she needed a new cut.

“You know sometimes I forget how young you are,” Miranda spoke like she was thinking aloud. “Still looking at this city, at your life, as if it’s some dramatic quest.”

“Don’t do that,” Andy groaned. “I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m some petulant teenager who doesn’t know what she wants,” she critiqued. “I have a degree in journalism. I ran a college newspaper. I wrote award-winning articles. Excuse me for wanting to get back to that rather than just…”

“Just what?” When met with silence, Miranda then trembled and spoke more loudly than she had so far this evening. “Say the rest of it, Andrea!”

“Just work as a personal assistant to someone who’s not even in publishing anymore.”

Andy’s firmly spoken declaration struck Miranda like a finely-shot arrow. Was she imagining a corresponding tremor in her chest? She hadn’t expected this conversation at all, but she never fathomed this. For Andrea — _her Andrea, damn it!_ — to throw this in her face at such a moment.

“Not that that’s your fault!” Andy knew she’d fucked up. She should’ve never said that. She barely ever even thought it, so to say it—! She didn’t know from what dark corner of her mind that came from. She tried to backtrack, but she watched as Miranda shut down in front of her. “I mean, I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying that this stopped being beneficial to me.”

“When?” Miranda coldly inquired.

“When, what?”

Andrea was never slow, and Miranda couldn’t fathom why the girl’s deductive processes had left along with her logic.

“When did your professional role become useless to you?” Miranda clarified. “Or rather, let me put this in the terms you’re too cowardly to use, when did _I_ become completely useless to you and your grand dreams of big city success?”

“No, you’re misunderstanding me.” Andy held her hands up, trying to slow this down and return to just a few moments before she’d said something she didn’t mean.

“No, Andrea, I think I’m understanding far more than even you realize.”

“ _You_ aren’t the problem, Miranda! It’s the job, the place. It’s nowhere near where I envisioned myself.”

Miranda couldn’t help herself anymore. She snapped. That dam finally broke, the one she kept such a careful eye on, never letting others see the overly sensitive and vulnerable woman hidden behind layers of stone and ice. Andy notices the change and immediately pales at the reminder of a broken Miranda in a gray robe. Only this wasn’t a divorce, this was just…an assistant looking for a better opportunity, wasn’t it? People had these conversations with their superiors every day.

“You still think your life is in your control,” Miranda calmly spoke. She looked at the countertop, shielding her eyes from view, but Andy noticed how her hands shook. “And to be honest, even I thought that way merely a few months ago. My ‘vision’ was to run a fashion magazine until old age or death got in the way. Look at me. Do you think I planned on this?”

Miranda’s voice broke at the end of the question. She stretched her arms outward, taking in the disheveled dining room with its failed table setting, boards upon easels with drawings and layouts, folders scattered across chairs.

The stage was set for humiliation, and Miranda felt poised to accept the role, but she wouldn’t. She would never. She knew the powers she possessed and how each wrong move or misstep only brought an opportunity for improvement. Today’s failure was tomorrow’s last-minute rescue, all at her hand and through her leadership. Miranda reminded herself of this like a mantra, until Andrea’s voice broke through.

“I know you didn’t plan this, Miranda. I know that better than anyone. And I’ve been so impressed with how you’ve…”

Miranda nearly gagged at the sympathy note and raised a hand. “Oh please, stop while you’re ahead. I don’t need you to assure me that my life is valid.” She then looked at Andrea directly. She needed to remind her of why they were here, of what they were doing. “But this is what we do! We go full steam ahead, then when there’s a roadblock, we adapt, shift, evolve. We don’t suddenly decide to change our course entirely or try to put everything into reverse when our present doesn’t fit some idea we once had. We don’t quit, Andrea.”

“I’m not you!” Andy raised her voice now. She couldn’t play Miranda’s game any longer. She wanted to yell, to scream, to finally make herself known to this woman who obviously only saw her as a reflection. “This isn’t about you, Miranda! This is about me! We’re not the same person. I don’t want what you want.” She breathed deep and leveled her gaze with Miranda’s for the rest of it. “I’m a writer, and I haven’t written a story since college. Every day that I spend at the museum, I just feel myself getting further and further away from that. All this stuff isn’t who I am!”

She mimicked Miranda’s earlier gesture, arms wide encompassing both the kitchen and the dining room in her assessment. Miranda saw something else though. She also saw how those outstretched arms included herself in them, too.

“After all this time,” Miranda began, pinning Andy down with a look that she hadn’t seen since that first day she’d brought the book to the townhouse. “I thought you respected me, what I do. But you’re still that girl, looking with disdain at all this _stuff_.”

“That’s not true!” Andy couldn’t help if she screeched now. She wanted to reach over and grasp Miranda’s hands, touch her, connect to her in some way. She knew to do so now would be akin to suicide, but she laid her hands on the marble countertop, leaning over and trying to make her understand. “You’re not listening to me. _Of course_ , I respect you!”

Only inches away from each other now, they both looked into the other’s eyes, hoping to find an opening, but they both only saw their own failure to communicate and the other’s willful inability to understand.

“Yes, you respect me,” Miranda whispered, her eyes finally unlocking from Andy’s. “But not what I do.” Andy shook her head and wanted to respond, but then she heard Miranda mutter below her breath. “You’re just like the rest of them.”

Miranda froze and so did Andy. She hadn’t meant to say that, and Andy knew a line was just crossed. Andy instantly began breathing as fast as she had when she first started this conversation. She was back on the top plank of the high dive again, but this time she stared straight down at another future, one she never dared hope for outside of those few minutes before she went to sleep at night.

_The rest of who?_ , Andy thought. She shook her head and hoped more words would bury whatever just happened. “Just because I don’t want to be you, doesn’t mean I don’t respect you.” Andy reached a little further across the countertop and brushed against Miranda’s cashmere sweater. She couldn’t look at her again, so she focused on that instead, the soft material right at her fingertips. “It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

Miranda instantly jolted away from her and turned her back. Andy watched Miranda’s shoulders shake and ascend in an erratic rhythm. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks blotched red.

“Not now,” Miranda almost begged. “You’ve had weeks. Not now. Don’t insult me even further.”

Andy slipped off the high-dive and into freefall. She grew more pale and her jaw trembled, but in her mind she saw her limbs flailing, searching for something stable. She grasped at whatever hold she could find. Uselessly, of course, because there was no going back now. Nevertheless, she couldn’t handle this. She never thought she’d have the chance to.

Her pulse slowed. Her jaw stopped trembling. She needed to bring this back to what this conversation was really about, not…this other thing.

“I don’t want to be an assistant anymore, Miranda.”

Whether the words themselves or her cold delivery did it, Miranda couldn’t say, but finally she knew it was over. Her ears burnt and her lungs felt too big for her ribcage. That arrow Andy had launched and landed earlier? These words ripped that arrow out, without a practiced hand or even a flame to cauterize the wound.

Miranda wanted to say that Andrea was never just her assistant. She wanted to give her the surprise she had waiting for her. She wanted to plead for her to stay and tell her frankly and finally how much she cherished her work, how much she cherished her. As the pain oozed, however, Miranda felt herself grow cold.

“Well, then we’re done here,” she heard her voice as if through a fog. “If you’re not my assistant, then you’re nothing to me.”

Andy wanted solid ground, and this is what she got. The deep pool felt like a brick wall as when you finally hit the water at a bad angle. Her eyes smarted at the pain, and she tried to keep the tears from dropping.

“You can’t say that now,” Andy hypocritically responded. “Not after all this.”

She’d asked for this. She wanted to make the conversation professional again, and Miranda would oblige her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miranda stated and spoke with a steady, penetrating gaze. “Please leave my home now. Clean out your desk before I arrive on Monday. I’ll give you a recommendation, don’t worry. My apologies that it’s only from a _former_ editor in chief, but I’ll do my best.”

Miranda’s lip curled, but still trembled. She had obvious difficulties mastering her voice. Andy wanted to respond, to say something, but she was in shock. All her senses receded. She thought this would be a peaceful professional conversation, but somehow it spun into a debate that uncovered more than she realized. All she could do now is follow Miranda’s commands, back to base functions.

She slowly turned and went back into the dining room. She picked up her bag and moved to the foyer, where she removed her coat from the closet. A dull ringing in her ears continued, but with her hand on the door to the street, she felt Miranda’s presence again at her back and turned.

“You might as well have this,” Miranda spat and thrust a business card into her hand. “Something to remember me by.”

Miranda turned and ascended the stairs. Andy watched her go and stood still until she heard a door slam upstairs. She didn’t understand. Was this another insult? Another reminder that Miranda was now only a professional contact and perhaps not even that?

Andy pocketed the card, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and launched herself out into the cold New York City winter’s night.

She strode toward her subway stop. When she felt her hands shaking, she blamed the cold and fished into her pockets for her gloves. Pulling them loose also pulled out the damn card, too.

Andy almost kept walking, but then she pursed her lips and reached down to the sidewalk, her nails scratching against the asphalt as she tried to pull the card back up again. It was dirtied with this morning’s snow now, but Andy could still make out the name on it.

Andrea Sachs  
Research Associate  
 _The Metropolitan Museum of Art_

She stares at it until she sobs once. She didn’t want this. She didn’t. So why did she suddenly feel as if she’d just come face-to-face with her first major regret?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:) ...sorry. I like my conflicts in the rising action. Feel free to vent in the comments!


	4. Chapter 4

Just as she had every other morning for the past few weeks, Andy leant up against her kitchen counter, sipping her first coffee of the day, reading a mix of dailies, and trying not to stare at the ripped, thick envelope that sat discarded on the other side of the counter.

She’d received it nearly three weeks ago and still it sat where she’d dropped it after turning it upside down to ensure there wasn’t a note hidden within, bearing a familiar scrawl that launched a perfect insult. Something along the lines of, “In case you wanted to see everything you quit.” Or maybe, “We missed you at work for the past three months, but maybe you can make it to the last day.” Or even better, “Just an extra invite we had lying around. Don’t take it seriously.” But there wasn’t a note inside. Just the invitation and nothing else.

Andy approached it now, as one would a pest that you hadn’t yet mustered up the nerve to kill, and confirmed the final date to RSVP. She then looked again at the top of her _New York Times_ and knew this morning would be her last chance to claim her attendance at this year’s Met Gala.

She gulped the last of her coffee, dropped her mug into the sink, gathered her belongings, and made her way towards the door. She slammed it shut and stood in the hallway for a moment. After a muttered, “Damn it,” she entered her apartment again, scooped the invitation into her bag, and finally left the place and began her commute to work.

A few blocks walk, a subway ride, a Starbucks stop for breakfast and another coffee, and overall a half hour later, she made it to the main offices of the _New York Mirror_. A few hellos greeted Andy on her way towards her desk, and she noticed Matt across the bullpen on the phone, but still waving his arm up high to bid her good morning. She smiled and waved back, then finally dropped her things on her desk and sank into her squeaky chair in the middle of the bullpen.

Before she could even think about it, she pulled her desk phone from the cradle and punched the numbers on the invitation. The call lasted less than thirty seconds. They confirmed her name, took down her RSVP, and advised her to call again once she chose a dress. The call dropped after that, and Andy finally exhaled. That was done; now to work.

Her first day at the _New York Mirror_ , she thought they’d made a mistake when they first showed her to her desk, smack dab in the center of the chaos. Now, she understood why the rookies were thrown into the belly of the beast. It was practically impossible to get any work done.

She remembered once reading somewhere that the enemy to great writing was interruption. That person must’ve worked at a New York paper at some point because they’d find their statement verified ten times over the course of one morning. Whether it was the shouting across the open space, papers flying from one desk to another, or interns running between editors, Andy’s focus always wavered.

She noticed how, as you were assigned more stories and gained more experience, your desk moved further and further into the fringes. Until finally you arrived at an office with a view. She kept her eye on those offices as she worked and whenever an interruption got in her way. If during the more trying moments she whispered, “You don’t stop when someone tells you what you can’t do,” she tried not to overthink it.

Three months in and she had the usual early articles to her name. Follow-ups to someone else’s work that had already fallen out of relevancy. Local incidences with no legs on them, no chance of a series or an interesting spin. And of course the occasional puff piece. Over the past three weeks though, she began to see a light at the end of the tunnel. She understood the hierarchy, having created similar hierarchies of her own back at Northwestern, so she was willing to do the dirty work. On the side, however, she kept her ear to the ground and had a number of promising leads for stories in the New York City public school district, the parks surveillance system, and finally her most exciting lead.

Last week she ran into a man during her usual morning coffee stop. A loud talker, he practically broadcasted his phone conversation around the cafe. While others rolled their eyes and raised the volume on their headphones, Andy listened. He mentioned the American housing market and its imminent failure. This intrigued Andy immediately because she knew, as almost every American adult with a pipe dream of either home ownership or retirement did, that the housing market was the safest bet in American investments.

Andy watched as he bought an iced coffee (“Oh thank God,” Andy muttered to herself), then strategically positioned herself so that, as soon as he turned, his coffee splattered across Andy’s clothes. He cursed, then apologized and handed her his card as he walked out the door, yelling back at her to call him and he’d buy her a new shirt. _Blouse_ , Andy silently corrected, pocketed the card, and smiled.

Since then she played the half-interested fool, and this guy bit the line, always ready to spend a few minutes on the phone to explain his theory for the biggest economic disaster since the Great Depression. Andy had already scoured the internet for other stories along this line and found only confirmations of what he’d already said, but no editorials or larger reports on the greater economic threat. That usually meant one of two things as an investigative journalist: either you’re working on a story that’s a dead end or you’re the early bird who’s about to pounce on a very big worm. Andy hoped it was the latter.

In the meantime, she completed her small pieces, kept the deadlines with a precision that the past year had instilled into her bones, and built a reputation on accuracy, dependability, and professionalism. And in this manner, she made it through most days, barely stopping for a New-York-cart lunch and realizing the time before her exhaustion finally hit her.

While the energy buzzed around her and morning shifted to afternoon, Andy looked around the bullpen and remembered the part of all this that had been the greatest shock. When she worked at her college paper, she loved the camaraderie and how practically every writer had an impact on another writer’s work. Everyone worked towards the same goal, the next issue, and the satisfaction at feeling the wet ink slowly dry was felt while surrounded with your comrades in arms.

This is what the movies usually depicted about producing a good paper. Intelligent, earnest journalists all coming together to stick it to the man. And if there were one or two heads that stood slightly taller than the others, then that was their due — they were the investigators and the writers. Behind them and around them, however, stood a myriad of other faces, cheering them on as a team.

The reality was much different. The first time she asked another writer if she could take a look at his work, a shocked and mildly insulted face replied. It seemed that in a world where print publishing was dying, everyone hoarded their piece of pie.

As she began doing research on the housing market, she hoped to draw another writer in to help her with the work, especially since she knew precious little about banking and the stock market in general. She collected article after article and read them, taking voracious notes, but she would’ve loved another pair of eyes to help her see the forest through the trees. Two heads were always better than one, and that was especially true when trying to connect the dots.

The sun descended and the afternoon moved towards evening, the golden glow filtering through the windows. Andy let her mind wander now to a basement office without windows, where she spent so many afternoons and evenings working with a research partner who saw the dots connecting before the research even began. She wished she could just compress all these articles and notes into one neat .zip file as her ex-partner preferred and send them across the city.

Andy wondered whether she’d made the right decision to call. When her eyes first alighted on the red envelope weeks ago and then she felt the weight of it in her hands, she knew what it was. And since then, she’d been going back and forth between two poles: feeling insulted and nostalgic. She wondered whether they’d sent it as an oversight — surely, her name still lingered on many of those lists — or if this was a pointed invitation. Knowing the fastidious nature of both women at the helm, Andy felt sure the latter theory was the correct one.

Mere days ago, she vowed not to answer, attend, or pay any mind to the idea. Nevertheless, her memories beckoned. Hours upon hours spent learning curatorial protocol, days and days researching how best to display a foreign artifact, and countless evenings doing both with _her_ help. Finally, the memory of one such evening decided her.

Unlike that last night together and its bitter cold, Andy loved remembering those preceding weeks. ( _You’ve had weeks_ , Miranda’s pained whisper still echoed. Andy winced alone at her desk.) She sifted through specific moments, textures, sounds, and feelings like a photographic slideshow that played against her closed eyelids.

There were the research sessions at the townhouse, of course, but far better were the evenings they’d finish early or even the ones where Miranda would press her foot against Andy’s to get her attention, then ask whether she was hungry or not. Sometimes they’d order in and eat out of Chinese takeout boxes. Miranda would merely narrow her eyes when Andy stole a sesame chicken from her box. Or there’d be the nights they cooked together, bumping into each other and arguing over how much garlic to put into a dish or where to set the temperature. Andy had smoothed these stone memories to a shine with how much she’d revisit them.

Then there were others, locked away like uncut gems and only viewed on days when her resolve weakened or her regret roared. In one such memory, they were in the townhouse late one night, sitting upon a sumptuous couch in Miranda’s family room, “doing research” by having a foreign film marathon after Andy pointed out the glaring hole in their programming. Andy remembered how she’d been drawn further and further into one film until she finally sat literally at the edge of her seat, her elbows resting on her knees and hands clasped beneath her jaw.

After the final twist, Andy turned towards Miranda who had remained seated back comfortably against the couch. She caught Miranda looking not at the screen but at her with tender curiosity, as if she’d either grown a second head or glowed incandescently in the dark room.

“What is it?” Andy asked in the darkness as the credits rolled over a black screen.

Miranda studied her then and waited, like when she wanted Andy to answer her own question, to figure it out on her own. The moments ticked past, and Andy felt something sink into her chest and expand outward. She couldn’t tell if it came from within or grew from Miranda’s intense gaze, but either way it staggered her until she just couldn’t speak what she had suddenly realized.

“Did you enjoy the film?” Miranda finally spoke and the moment vanished.

At her desk Andy shut her eyes tight, just as she’d done months ago when she arrived back at her apartment afterwards and realized something significant had sifted through her fingertips. She breathed in, then exhaled in a long sigh. She rested her face in her palms and rubbed at her tired eyes with her ink-stained fingertips.

“Whoa, I’m glad I passed by,” Matt’s voice startled Andy to look up and see his broad body hovering at her desk.

Although it’s a cliche, Andy always thought “corn-fed Midwestern high school football star” when she looked at him. He acted like it too, but in a good way. He knew how to have fun, especially in a bar or game night setting, but when he got down to business, he followed his instincts with gusto and wrote about his findings with precision and a confident voice. Andy understood how he climbed the ranks of the paper so quickly since he first arrived a couple years ago after bouncing around from one sinking ship to the next.

“Do I look that bad?” Andy laughed.

“Honestly?” Matt assessed her face and screwed up his mouth beneath his dark brown beard. “You look like shit. Let’s get out of here. Angela’s been wanting to try this new spot downtown, so we’re rounding up a few people for happy hour. What d’ya say?”

“Downtown?” Andy grimaced, but still began signing off, gathering her things, and slinging her bag across her shoulder.

Matt guffawed and clapped her on the back. “You know I love when these little bursts of a Manhattan snob come out of you. You seem so nice and easygoing, then _slap!_ ” And he then mimicked Andy’s voice, but added a touch of sangfroid she knew she’d never achieve: _“_ ‘Downtown?’”

“Yeah yeah, I’m full of surprises. Taxi or subway?”

“ _There’s_ the girl I know,” Matt cheered as they walked together to the exit.

One tightly packed subway ride later, they emerged in the financial district and made their way to a hole in the wall that shockingly wasn’t crawling with Wall Street types. It felt like a small Brooklyn dive that managed to tuck itself away amidst the Manhattan steel and glitter. Andy instantly liked the atmosphere and followed Matt towards Angela, who was currently hailing them down from a high-top in the corner.

“Thank God, you guys made it,” she exclaimed over the din, while kissing Matt’s cheek and hugging Andy. “I’ve had to shoo away like three different groups. Anyone else showing up, babe?”

“Maybe,” Matt answered, while taking off his and Andy’s coats and placing them on the stand near their table. He rattled off a few names that he’d texted but got shifty answers from, then the last name made Angela groan.

“Did you have to invite _him_?” Angela begged.

“C’mon, I haven’t seen him in a while,” Matt shrugged, “And this is his side of town.”

“Exactly my point,” Angela responded.

“Sorry, Andy,” Matt explained. “Let me fill you in. I worked for a bit at a financial paper down here. Hated every second of it, but one guy there kind of latched on to me. He’s… Well, how should I…”

“Matt!” A booming voice echoed across the bar and suddenly an immaculately-cut navy suit, covering a light blue shirt with a white collar and flashy tie, squeezed between Matt and Andy.

After a few seconds of back slaps and pushes and inside jokes, the man in the suit and slicked black hair moved over to Angela and wrapped her in a big hug. Finally, he looked at Andy and asked Matt, “Who’s this?”

“This is Andy,” Matt answered. “She works with me at the _Mirror_. Andy, this is Thomas.”

Thomas extended his hand for a shake and gave Andy a broad smile that brightened his blue eyes. “Nice to meet you, Andy. Is that short for something?”

“Andrea,” she said. “But no one calls me that.”

“Shame. It’s pretty! I personally don’t let anyone call me Tommy.”

As Thomas laughed at his own remark, Andy looked around for their waitress to see what the happy hour specials were. Thomas took the seat next to her, noticed what she wanted, and flagged down a waitress himself. He ordered a few different starters for the table, then asked for the happy hour drink menu. He turned back to Andy with a grin, while she braced herself for a long couple hours with this guy next to her.

Thomas insisted on a round of shots to get the evening started. Andy could hear Angela groan from across the table and barely hid a smirk. Minutes later though, they all took their shots and followed them up with whatever cocktail or beer they’d each ordered. The appetizers came out one by one, and Andy had to admit that Thomas didn’t have bad taste. That shot was smooth, and the appetizers were delicious.

“Have you already been here?” She asked, while shoveling more roasted Brussels sprouts onto her small plate.

“No,” he mumbled from around a chicken wing. “Well yeah, sorta. My buddy at the paper does the food reviews and got invited for the press opening. He let me tag along. Good, right?” He tossed the now bare bone onto a pile, then leaned across Andy to grab a short rib slider. “It’s like a mix of classy hors d’oeuvres and sports bar food.”

Andy decided to try one of the chicken wings, even though she heard Nate’s voice in her head calling it trash parts. Thomas then began picking Angela’s brain despite her initial protests, while Matt and Andy talked shop. Matt flagged down their waitress again to get them all another round. Andy barely knew what was in her cocktail, but the first one tasted yummy, so she figured the next would only be better.

Then, they caught each other up on the various water cooler conversations around the bullpen. She discussed her promising financial lead with Matt last week, but he dissuaded her from going too far down that path. It sounded like a conspiracy theory, and besides their paper didn’t pay much heed to Wall Street news. Andy tried to make him understand that it wasn’t just Wall Street, but he wasn’t persuaded.

While waiting for their next drink and taking a breather from work talk, Andy watched as Angela was slowly won over and began excitedly discussing her job with Thomas. She worked as a marketing consultant for up and coming tech entrepreneurs. Her group had already discovered a few ultimately lucrative projects, and Andy loved hearing about the new inventions, technologies, and breakthroughs. It seemed Thomas did, too.

“ _So_ cool!” Thomas exclaimed. “You’re saying it’s pretty much like an infinite jukebox? I can _choose_ whatever I want to listen to — not like Pandora — and I don’t have to download it.”

“Yeah,” Angela nodded, her thick black curls bouncing above her head, and raked her teeth against an artichoke leaf. “That’s the part that’s got everyone interested. Ten years from now, we won’t be downloading our content anymore. We’ll be streaming it.”

Andy raised her eyebrows, wondering what she meant, then their drinks came, they cheered one another and got back to their conversations. Andy had something she’d been wanting to ask Matt about for a while now. A few sips into their fresh drinks, Andy looked up at her friend and coworker. She’d never been great at gauging when a friendship could shift into those deeper conversations, but then Matt’s kind eyes looked quizzically into hers.

“Does working at a paper like this ever get more,” Andy paused to find the right word, “collaborative?”

“What do you mean?”

Andy thought back on her very first day at _Runway_ before she was even hired. She remembered feeling as if she were dropped into a beehive. The energy was palpable. Nervous, yes. Mildly insane. But active. She watched as people came and went, jumping into conversations, then Nigel’s voice loudly calling above the din.

“Like everyone’s working towards a common goal.”

Matt’s eyes opened in understanding, then in mild sympathy. “I know what you mean, but that’s not real anymore. It’s kill or be killed now.” He took another gulp of his drink. “Stop watching movies.”

Andy remembered run-throughs, weekly team meetings, squeezing into packed cars to make it to a preview across town, letting the girls in makeup fix some eyeliner she misused.

“It’s real in some publications,” she muttered.

Matt rolled his eyes. He knew what publication Andy was thinking of. “Come on, Sachs. Get off the Kool-Aid. Magazines are driven mostly by blind panic right now, even more than we are.”

“Actually...,” Thomas cut in. It seemed his conversation with Angela was done, although Andy wouldn’t put it past this guy to just jump around the table like a topic interloper.

“Oh no,” Matt muttered. “I’m outnumbered.”

“I get where she’s coming from,” Thomas continued despite Matt’s comment. “Magazines are way more collaborative. Where did you work?”

“ _Runway_ ,” Andy answered. “But just as a PA.”

“Respect.” Thomas even bowed his head. “I had a roommate who worked for _Vogue_ and spent half his time bitching that he couldn’t get a spot at _Runway_. He wanted to work for their art director. What’s his name? It was like British or something.”

“Nigel Kipling,” Andy spoke as if she were finally getting to return to a place she sorely missed. She also remembered that last unanswered text from Nigel; she’d return it tonight, for sure.

“That’s the one!”

Andy turned towards Thomas with new eyes. She noted his fine watch, how his cuffs fell right at the bone of his wrist, and the perfectly toned skin of his cleanly shaven face.

“What’s the difference?” Angela chimed in. “ _Runway, Vogue, Elle, Cosmo_. All the same to me.”

Both Andy and Thomas stared at Angela as if she’d just insulted their mothers.

“Take it back, Angela,” Thomas replied with a dead seriousness that made Matt cackle. Even Angela couldn’t help but laugh. “ _Elle_? _Cosmo_? Not even in the same ballpark! And everyone in magazine publishing knows that when it comes to women’s fashion, _Vogue_ is the money machine, and _Runway_ is the art book. Simple as that. _Vogue_ is advertising with a side of content. _Runway_ gives a shit. Or _gave_ a shit. I’ll admit it’s kind of dropped off over the past few months.”

Andy now really stared at Thomas; she even felt her jaw go slack. In another life, she might’ve taken out her voice recorder to send all this to Miranda immediately. “Listen to this drunken frat boy in a bar defend your magazine’s honor.” She imagined Miranda’s self-satisfied smirk after playing the tape.

“Are you like a magazine connoisseur or something?” Andy finally got past her shock and asked.

“Nah, more like a sore loser,” Thomas admitted. “My first job was at _GQ_. I was an intern, and they liked me enough to keep me on for a bit. There weren’t any staff writing positions though, so I moved on. I miss it like hell though. Fuck a staff writing position; I miss the energy.”

“Right?! It’s exciting! Like you’re all in it together. It’s even fun sometimes.”

“When you’re not freaking out or fearing for your job,” Matt added, knowing a little more about Andy’s time at _Runway_.

“Oh because none of us are doing that, Matt?” Thomas responded. “Come on. Don’t kid yourself into thinking that working for a paper means more security because it’s the ‘news.’ The news is on TV for most Americans and soon, if we listen to Angela here,” Angela beamed at the inclusion, “it’ll be on our phones. Then it’s sayonara for all of us unless _both_ magazines and newspapers start wising up.”

Andy agreed, and while Thomas pounded his empty glass on the table and raised his voice for “Anotherrrr!,” a few puzzle pieces clicked into place. This guy missed collaboration as much as she did, even possessing a certain respect for it that Andy hadn’t come across since leaving Miranda. Then, she suddenly remembered why he could make it to this bar and the other reason he dressed so sharp. He worked for a finance paper.

“Thomas, can I have your number?”

She half-expected him to make some joke about coming on to him or something equally immature, but he nodded merrily and reached inside his suit for a card, intuiting that she was asking for business purposes. He passed it to her, and she slipped it into her bag.

“Where’s yours?” He held his hand out and kept opening and closing his fingers.

“I don’t have any yet,” Andy shook her head. A corresponding burn leapt from her purse, where she kept her only and ironically useless business card.

“I know a guy who can whip some up for you quick,” Thomas said. “Text me your number though, so I’ll know it’s you.” Their waitress dropped off another beer in front of Thomas. He took a couple gulps, then fully turned towards Andy. “So you’ve got an idea?”

* * *

Blocks and blocks up town and a world away, Miranda dismissed her assistant for the day and began to slowly close her eyes as he slipped from her office.

“Wait, Joseph,” she called out softly, remembering something. The young man swiveled back towards her on his handmade oxfords and pulled his slim notebook out of his pocket again.

“Yes, Miranda?” 

“Has Isabella left already?”

“She was still here when I was on my way to you a few moments ago. I wager she’s still ironing out the seating arrangements with her team.”

Miranda nodded. “That’s all.” Then he left for good. Miranda could hear his soft whistling fill the silent office as he moved further from her. He was always humming or whistling some tune, and Miranda felt the challenge of identifying it like a half-hearted game. _Gershwin_ , she thought to herself, _“The Man I Love.”_

She felt the piano notes in her fingertips as she shut down her computer, gathered her phone and a couple notebooks together, then moved towards her office’s makeshift closet. She pulled her coat off its hanger, but draped it on her bent arm for now. She clutched her Prada purse with her free hand and made her way out of her office. She still heard the piano and scratched a mental note to get that songbook for her daughters. Perhaps the next recital? She’d try to make it this time.

Rather than ascend to the galleries, Miranda moved further into the offices until she faintly heard Isabella’s half-intelligible roar from behind the double doors that kept her “party planning team,” as Harold called them, separate from the museum workers. Miranda couldn’t have them filling up her home every night anymore, so they’d somehow coerced the Classics department to lend them some space for a couple months.

Miranda finally pushed the doors open and watched as Isabella stared down one of her associates, who was currently covering her phone’s speaker and speaking quickly in Spanish to Isabella.

“Tell him, _NO!_ ” Isabella responded. “He either wears Gucci, or he stays home. _We_ are the ones who dictate who wears what. If he has a problem with that, then he can attend his next red carpet at the Kids’ Choice Awards where he belongs!”

Miranda raised an eyebrow as Isabella noticed her entrance and shook her head in a clear signal of “don’t ask.” Miranda merely raised her hand in acceptance; she had no intention of asking. She hired Isabella because she knew that she didn’t need to be micromanaged. And Miranda enjoyed that one bright spot in her staff — a person she could trust enough to just get it done. She used to have two of those. Now, just the one. And maybe Joseph...soon.

“He says he’ll wear the Gucci,” the woman assisting Isabella stated, once she’d slammed the phone back into its cradle. “But then couldn’t help himself from saying that he expects a good seat inside.”

All three women rolled their eyes, but only Isabella commented. “We’ll give him a good seat right by the bathrooms. If he or his uppity handler call again, he’s off the list.”

“We can’t do that,” Isabella’s girl laughed. Miranda couldn’t remember her name. “He’s got the number one song on—”

“Do you know how many ‘number one songs’ I’ve blacklisted over the years, Celia? Too many! And I’ve never regretted one.”

“Okay, okay,” Celia surrendered. “Are we done then?”

“You are,” Isabella answered. “Dale, pa’ tu casa.”

Celia rounded the table, embraced Isabella with a kiss and hug, hesitated in front of Miranda, then just nodded and left the room.

“And you?” Miranda asked, once the door closed behind Celia. “When will you be heading out?”

“As soon as I show you the latest seating chart.” Isabella then walked across the room and Miranda followed. They’d each stared at this damn board so many times that now just a glimpse of it gave Miranda an instant migraine.

“Must we?”

“Yes, but I think we have the final draft.” With only three weeks to spare, Miranda hoped they did.

They both scanned the chart together. A white board with black lines denoting the tables and each seat, a blue or pink post-it tab stuck to each one. Miranda read the names of designers, models, writers, singers, movie stars, and more. She could barely remember what the last draft was, but she thought this version looked acceptable. Some new names had been added, no doubt the last-minute RSVPs. She merely nodded, and Isabella heaved a sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” she sighed. “I plan on burning this once it’s all over.”

“I’ll be at that bonfire,” Miranda smirked.

Isabella leaned back against the table behind them and looked askance at Miranda, following her gaze back to the board again. She had wanted Miranda to approve the (hopefully) final seating chart, but she also wanted to see something else. She knew Miranda had noticed the added names and couldn’t help herself. Miranda wouldn’t bring it up, so she decided to do what she did best: meddle where she shouldn’t.

Miranda watched Isabella suddenly move forward and flick one pink post-it note. Miranda immediately pursed her lips.

“She phoned in today to accept the invite,” Isabella said, feigning disinterest. “Think she’ll actually show up?”

Miranda shrugged. “Who can predict her behavior?”

Miranda once thought she could have predicted Andrea right down to the next mid-afternoon snack craving, but then one evening proved her wrong. She remembered the weeks after as a pain in her shoulders, a pull in her jaw, and finally a breakdown.

When she arrived at work the Monday morning after Andrea left her and found Andrea’s desk immaculately cleaned, her throat tightened. She had hoped that Andrea’s dogged nature would force her to do two weeks out of some misplaced sense of duty. Miranda thought that during those extra weeks she might be able to persuade Andrea to stay, but no such luck. Andrea was gone and left nothing behind but a bevy of questions. That day Miranda launched a heavy glare at each no-name researcher darkening her door, asking where Andy was, until finally she stopped paying them any mind at all.

One day without her and Miranda’s inbox began to overflow, her phone rang incessantly. Given the tragic irony of the promotion Miranda had planned for her, she’d already compiled some contenders for her new personal assistant. She chose the first name and called him that Tuesday, informing him that he had the position and to report tomorrow morning. Thankfully, the usual carousel of assistant tryouts never took off. Joseph showed up, did his job, and didn’t make a fuss. So that meant one problem fixed, but of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

After losing _Runway_ , Miranda barely stopped to take stock of her new life. There was that day in Paris, a momentary limbo between incarnations, but Andrea had ferried her from one side of the river to the other. Then, on the other side, she still had that small familiarity. Everything, every one, had left her. She’d hoped Nigel would rethink his position with James Holt, but he only passed on the information from _Runway_ and wished her luck. Only Andrea stayed without promises or contracts to keep her.

Since Andrea’s departure, the silences swallowed Miranda whole. To and from the Met in the backseat of the town car, late nights and a glass of wine alone at home on the evenings the girls were with their father, and the gaps within her own mind and ideas. All those places where Andrea would sit and chatter and respond or retaliate. Miranda remembered warm brown eyes, a firm hand guiding her by the elbow into their town car, and the whispered comments — half to herself, half to Miranda — that filled the silence during their joint work sessions. Without Andrea’s presence, Miranda finally woke up to the ledge she had decided to build her life upon at fifty-one. And the long drop to the bottom suddenly became her reality.

She stood alone in a strange land and found it overwhelming. What was she thinking? Why hadn’t she pivoted to another position in publishing? She could’ve easily done it. Condé Nast was always courting her. Or what about something directly in contemporary fashion? She’d heard how Gucci group and Tom Ford wondered at her career shift, feeling that they had some claim to her expertise if she ever decided to leave _Runway_.

Regret consumed her. Fear wracked her nerves. Until finally, one morning she fell apart at home over something embarrassingly trivial.

She’d forgotten to tell her housekeeper to retrieve some of her heavier coats from the guest closet when the temperatures began to drop. She had walked out her door in a woefully inadequate coat, expecting the usual winter cold, and found it icy and bitter all of a sudden. She reentered her home, her girls looking quizzically at her from their seats at the kitchen bar where they ate their cereal before school, and ascended the stairs to the top floor for a heavy coat.

When Cara began scooting the girls towards the door, Cassidy realized her mother hadn’t come back downstairs and that Roy stood on the sidewalk, checking his watch and staring wonderingly at the townhouse. Ignoring Cara’s calls, Cassidy ran back upstairs to see what kept her mom and found her kneeling on the floor of the guest room, which contained her heavy coats and also the wall-to-wall shelves of previous _Runway_ issues. Half a shelf now lied in disarray on the floor, which is where Miranda sat and stared. She quickly got to her feet when she heard Cassidy enter, but not in time to avert Cassidy’s shocked look. Miranda tried to keep her hands from shaking as they wiped the watery tracks from her flushed cheeks.

“Mom,” Cassidy whimpered, suddenly frightened. She’d never seen her mother like this.

“I’m fine, bobbsey,” Miranda cleared her throat. “I’m fine. I just needed a coat. It’s cold out there. Is yours alright?”

Cassidy nodded, but still stared wide-eyed. Miranda quickly retrieved the first thing her hand touched in the winter closet, barely registering whether it matched her ensemble, then placed a hand on Cassidy’s shoulder and walked with her downstairs. She felt the tension in her daughter’s posture and again when Cassidy hugged her tightly before walking to school with her sister and Cara.

Cassidy’s look haunted Miranda as Roy drove her to the Met. She remembered the first time she’d seen her mother break and how it had revealed to her that her mother was also a woman, an individual who felt personal loss and pain. It felt like she’d gone off into a place where she, her daughter, couldn’t follow until she too became an adult, a mom, a person with her own pain. Miranda hoped both her daughters would come to see and respect all of her, but she didn’t want them to look at her with pity.

As soon as she arrived in her office, she told Joseph to book her an appointment with Dr. McDowell, her former therapist who she hadn’t seen regularly since her first divorce. Just as then, Miranda currently contended with too many losses. She needed help. She had many faults, but never let it be said that pride was one of them.

And so she began the work of confronting the massive shift her life had taken in a matter of months. For the most part, the therapy sessions focused on her work issues, and if they ever treaded the personal, Miranda clammed up and merely claimed that there wasn’t much to tell. Her divorce proceedings were halfway through, and her daughters were happy with how her current position allowed her more free time in the evenings and weekends.

If Dr. McDowell paused after each of these pronouncements and waited for Miranda to express something more, then that was her errant wish. Miranda still didn’t quite have the words to describe the gaps Andrea had left in her life or the humility it would take to admit that her ex-assistant brought more joy and security to her life than either of her former long-term partners and even her job.

Forcing herself back to the present, Miranda’s eyes roamed the seating chart again, but Isabella watched as they kept darting to the table where she’d placed Andrea. Isabella decided to keep following her frivolous urges.

“What happened there?” She whispered.

“She wanted to be a journalist,” Miranda responded in a clipped tone, one that Isabella knew meant to lay off.

“Yes, I know that, but—.” Isabella began, but then she noticed how tense Miranda suddenly became. Her shoulders almost trembled with it, and Isabella felt a pang of remorse. “You know what? It’s none of my business.”

Miranda still kept her eyes upon the board, but she tried to breathe and relax her posture.

“I got so caught up in who I wanted her to be that I lost sight of who she is,” Miranda finally broke the silence, reciting a line she’d recently used in her therapist’s office on a rare occasion where her former assistant had been discussed. Isabella hadn’t expected it, and Miranda almost smiled at her surprised look. She had been working on expressing herself, but it seemed that doing so at work still startled people, even her current closest colleague. “So she left.”

Miranda expected Isabella to just leave it there, so she began to unfold her coat from her arms. And yet she heard Isabella hum a negative.

“I don’t know,” she mused. “I disagree.”

Miranda looked a question at her, so Isabella continued.

“I’m just an outside observer, of course, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen someone look at another person the way you looked at her. It’s like you were assessing her and cheering for her at equal levels. You knew who she was, but also saw her potential. Probably even before she could. She was lucky to have such a mentor.”

“Yes, well,” Miranda responded in a strained voice. She hadn’t expected Isabella to see all of that, to perceive so much. “She didn’t see it that way.”

“Que lastima,” Isabella murmured. When Miranda quirked an eyebrow at her, Isabella translated, “What a shame. You two made a powerful combo. The energy in the room always hiked up a few notches when you were both in it. Everyone here felt it, I know.” She then bussed Miranda’s shoulder with a smirk. “That’s why they were all so intimidated.”

Miranda exhaled softly in what was half a laugh and a sigh. She thought of one hectic morning when she’d made Andrea realize how they were the ones in control, not the poorly dressed peons surrounding them. Miranda began slipping her arms into her coat, but as she did, Isabella added one more comment.

“Those were the others, though. I, on the other hand, just thought you two were fucking.” Miranda’s coat hung from the ends of her arms as she stood stock still like a scarecrow. Isabella’s former bad girl behavior always jumped out at the most inopportune moments, but she nevertheless wanted to burst into laughter at her colleague’s shocked and deeply flushed face. “Then I realized that you’re both too neurotic to mix work with pleasure. A nice image, nonetheless.”

Isabella turned towards the table strewn with her purse, her folders, beneath which lied her phone. She piled it all together and gave Miranda a chance to slowly recover. Once she noticed the woman finally complete the process of putting on her coat, she turned towards her again. Miranda’s face still held some of its blush, but her pulse didn’t seem to be jumping out of her throat any longer.

“You honestly can’t tell me I’m the first person to make that comment.” As soon as she said it, Isabella wondered if she had a death wish. Was this her unconscious driving her to get fired, so she wouldn’t have to actually descend into the hellish weeks before this Gala? But since Miranda still seemed too flustered to respond, Isabella just continued. “We’ve already talked about how you looked at her, but I bet you missed how she looked at you.”

“And how was that?” Miranda felt the words leave her lips, but couldn’t say what prompted them besides just reaction and...curiosity, if she dared name it.

Isabella merely stared at Miranda as if she were an idiot, then shook her head and laughed. “I won’t spoil that for you. Who knows? You might get her to look at you that way again at the Gala. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Isabella donned her own coat, and they both left side by side. Isabella switching off the lights in her area as she went, then falling in stride with Miranda as they moved through the Costume Institute’s maze of cubicles, up the hidden stairs, then out into the darkened galleries. Night had fallen, and they both tightened their coats around themselves before leaving the building. For the thousandth time in her life, Isabella wondered why she traded in a tropical home for a place that still held frigid temperatures even in April. New York City had always called her back though; she couldn’t resist it, warts and all.

Miranda kept her silence, but couldn’t help sneaking more glances at Isabella as they both descended the Met’s staircase, which would soon be encased in red for her Gala. Isabella smirked to herself with each look. Finally, as they neared Miranda’s waiting town car, Isabella felt bad for her and decided on mercy.

Right as Miranda waved goodbye and moved toward the door Roy held open, she heard Isabella calling her name.

“I can’t tell you how she looked at you, honey. But I can tell you how she looked at me every time I _dared_ to interrupt one of your little study sessions.” Miranda’s cheeks reddened again, and Isabella didn’t blame the cold. “Like a jealous puppy dog, one second away from trying her new teeth out on me.”

Miranda slipped into the Mercedes, and Roy gently shut the door after her. Isabella waved from outside, a smile still on her face as she walked down the street. Once her car began moving, Miranda let herself finally take in the deep gulps of air she’d been needing for the past ten minutes, ever since that crazed, gossiping, shameless madwoman began insinuating...

Miranda thought she’d done such a good job of keeping her thoughts firmly sealed and vaulted. Hell, she rarely let even her own mind linger upon a remembered look or a charged moment. To have it all laid bare in front of her, like so many tags and positions on a seating chart, she felt dizzy with the onslaught. She should kill Isabella, fire her at the least.

And yet, she knew these weren’t the deep breaths and heavy gasps of panic or fear. Her therapist had taught her how to distinguish her physical reactions. These were the long exhalations of relief.

She hadn’t been going crazy. It hadn’t all been a product of her imagination or willful blindness to what Andrea’s _actual_ words, actions, and looks were. She’d been obediently walking down that path in her therapy, accepting that it was all a figment of her own narcissism, the errant dream of a lonely old woman, grasping for some solid ground as her world slipped from under her. Her therapist didn’t possess the eyewitness account that someone like Isabella did, so she only had Miranda’s presentation of the information. Reviewing that presentation, Miranda noticed the self-pitying and hopeless thread that ran through it. She’d only discussed Andrea as a professional disappointment because she never dared put to words the greater pain of her personal disillusionment.

Miranda gasped again in clear relief. She wasn’t a fool. She was Miranda Priestly, damn it. She’d stopped seeing Andrea as she was, that was true. But that was only part of the story. She looked out at the passing brownstones as she neared her own home. She stopped seeing Andrea as her assistant and started seeing her as something else. She errantly believed that “something else” was just a promotion, a professional assessment. Now, she saw what was buried behind all that nonsense.

No, she wouldn’t fire Isabella, not after she’d triggered such an epiphany. She contemplated sending her a bouquet of flowers this weekend instead. For now, however, she flipped open her phone and pressed number four on speed dial.

“Joseph,” she said, once he picked up after a single ring. “I need you to book me an appointment with Dr. McDowell tomorrow, please. Shift other meetings around if necessary.”

She snapped her phone shut and exhaled. Finally, Miranda was ready to say it all. She wanted to be ready for whatever would happen in less than a month’s time and however Andrea would look at her. She had to do some work first, but work had never frightened her before. Especially with such a goal in sight. Isabella was right, once Miranda finally let herself envision it — they would make a lovely image together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you thank you thank you for all the comments so far! Please leave kudos and comments below. Next chapter is THE GALA! :D What are you hoping for?!
> 
> (N.B.: I'm playing with the timeline quite a bit when it comes to Andy's housing bubble story. And here's my favorite piano version of Gershwin's "The Man I Love": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zskt3VYBU1k)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we didn't get an actual Met Gala this year, here's a fictional substitute... Enjoy!

Andy waited on the sidewalk in front of her building for her ride to arrive and felt the inquisitive eyes of those who passed. She fidgeted with her dress each time and kept looking at her phone. Her nerves escalated as the minutes passed until finally she saw a black Mercedes turning onto her block. She waved it down, and it slowed to a stop right in front of her. Before she could reach for the door, it opened from within.

“Don’t you dare steal a chivalrous moment from me,” Nigel chided, leaping from his seat to stand across from Andy. “Let’s see it, Six. God knows I pulled not a few strings to get you in this.”

“Not here, Nigel,” Andy groaned. “I’ve already had to shoo away some judgmental stares.”

“Oh please! That’s not judgement. It’s not every day a regular New Yorker comes across something like this on their way home.”

Andy gave in with a smile and slowly turned. Despite her words and slight discomfort, she couldn’t help but relish this moment. She’d thank Nigel for years to come because she had never felt more beautiful in a dress than she did right now.

The Jean Paul Gaultier black gown trailed behind her as she moved. Its high neckline then wrapped in wide straps around her shoulders, leaving her arms and back bare, except for gold embellishments — a chain of medallions hung down her spine and thick cuffs sat on her upper arms. The first time she saw the dress, she instantly remembered the jewelry Miranda loved to stop and look at in the Egyptian gallery. The memory decided her.

Nigel, for his part, matched her look with subtle statements like eyeliner, then with much more dramatic decisions. Rather than the usual tux, Nigel wore a black McQueen men’s skirt over tight dress pants, then over a simple black tunic, he’d draped a short cape of metallic, shimmering jewel tones. They’d make a statement, and Andy delighted at the thought.

“You look damn good,” Andy laughed, letting herself finally enjoy the moment.

“And you, my dear, are stunning. We may not be the big celebs who’ll get all the camera flashes, but I’ll be damned if we aren’t the best looking duo there.”

“Not if Miranda has anything to say about it, I’m sure,” Andy said, as Nigel handed her into the car. He walked around the car, then joined her in the backseat. “She’s been planning the ensembles for their co-hosts since back when I was still there.”

“They don’t count,” Nigel responded. “They’re getting help.”

“I got help from you!”

“That’s different. We’re mere mortals with limited resources.”

“Not too limited,” Andy looked askance at Nigel. “I still think you’re going to get it from James when he sees neither of us in his designs.”

“I’m attending tonight as your friend, not as a representative for James Holt, and I make it my business to always wear my absolute favorite pieces of the year to the Met Gala. Even Miranda knew she couldn’t dictate my ensembles back when she ran it for _Runway_. James understands that as well.”

“Good to know. I don’t want to be caught in the middle of any drama.”

“He won’t even notice us,” Nigel said. “He’ll be there with Keira to show off the gown he made special for her and the event.”

They chattered on throughout the ride, giving Andy’s nerves the chance to recede until they finally slammed back into place when the car slowed again. Through the window, she saw the large white tent and the red stairs beneath.

“Now or never,” Nigel declared. He then held out his hand, and Andy grasped it tightly. They emerged from his side of the car, and she didn’t let him go until they were through the shouts, the flashes, and finally within the museum itself.

Andy gasped at the transformation.

* * *

Miranda always found this part the most difficult, standing still and watching as everyone filtered into the museum. When she was with _Runway_ , she stood in a lineup along with other representatives from Elias Clarke and welcomed each person. She detested it and decided to forgo that responsibility, leaving it to Isabella instead who was no doubt doing an impeccable job.

She stood in the shadows, sometimes with Andrew or Joseph by her side. Andrew kept leaving to adjust a skirt or a light or the angle of a mannequin for the thousandth time. He’d return each time out of breath and muttering how _now_ it was perfect. Five minutes would pass, he’d remember some other imperfection, and stride off in dismay. Joseph would only leave at her command to verify an arrival and return to share his findings, as he did now.

“They’re here,” he said, coming to a stop in front of Miranda, then turning with her as they walked towards the entrance.

“Where?” Miranda asked.

“Isa’s stalling them in the entryway, making a show of checking the list just as you requested.”

They strode together until the crush of bodies forced them to slide through, stopping only for Miranda to bestow quick greetings to the attendants who recognized her.

“Ah! Here she is,” Isabella’s voice broke through the din. Finally, two more women in highly sculptural frocks moved out of the way, and Miranda’s eyes landed on the two people she’d tasked both Isabella and Joseph to watch out for.

“Good evening, Jacqueline,” Miranda purred, while moving in for a couple air kisses as Jacqueline blanched at having to confront her. Had she really thought she would be able to survive this entire evening without a moment like this? “I’m so pleased that you were able to make it. And Irv,” Miranda hissed through a grin, while turning to the man himself, “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Why would that be?” Irv laughed. While Jacqueline paled, Irv blushed an ugly crimson color. “Your girl here is saying I’m not on the list of attendees.”

At the mention of “your girl,” Miranda watched Isabella’s lips curve into something like a snarl. Isabella muttered in one long spew of Spanish that no one understood, but that Miranda and Joseph — having spent enough time around Isabella — felt, in its tone and delivery, must contain not a few insults and curses.

“My ‘girl’ is Isabella Ruiz. You might remember her as the event planner you wouldn’t let my team hire last year for the Elias Clarke holiday party because you didn’t want the night’s success to depend upon a…Latina. You used another word then, but I’d rather not repeat it.”

Irv grew more serious, and his eyes darted between Miranda and Isabella with apprehension rather than derision.

“That was a long time ago. I’m asking about this event and why I’m being interrogated on my way in.”

“That’s because you weren’t invited, Irv,” Miranda replied. “Hence, my surprise.”

Irv scoffed. “I’m the chairman of Elias Clarke, and I’m here with the Editor in Chief of _Runway_.”

“And the Editor in Chief of _Runway_ , as an invited guest, may of course enter,” Miranda said, congratulating herself on keeping her voice from growing gritty at the mention of another human being as the EIC of her magazine. “I don’t want it said that I sabotaged the magazine by not allowing Jacqueline into the Gala. No no, I want the world to see that even without my help your new _Runway_ is and will continue to be an absolute disaster.”

Jacqueline’s arm, which had formerly rested within Irv’s, now slowly wilted and disentangled itself from him. _Good girl_ , Miranda thought. _Let’s not make this more embarrassing for both of you._

“I’ll stay out of _your_ magazine’s way, don’t worry,” Miranda continued. “It doesn’t need any petty revenge on my behalf to become an even greater embarrassment than it was when you and your board first begged me to take it over years ago. I want you to have to explain its slow death at multiple meetings without blaming me for any of it, as I know you did so well when I worked there.”

If he were red before, Irv looked as if he were about to burst now. Obviously, Miranda’s words struck a nerve, as she knew they would, given _Runway_ ’s plummeting circulation numbers and sales.

“You can’t do this,” he pitifully croaked. “What am I supposed to do? Walk back down the red carpet?”

“You can take one of the side exits if you’d like, but if you don’t do either one in about one minute, I’ll have you escorted out.” Miranda turned away to move back towards the shadows again and watch the rest of the arrivals, but before she did, she glanced back at Irv. “And by the way, don’t ever again try to attend any one of my events, exhibitions, or anything belonging to me and mine.”

At those final words, Irv scurried off to find a way out that brought him the least attention. Jacqueline made her exit up the staircase without another word, so now Miranda merely squeezed Isabella’s shoulder and walked with Joseph back to their corner, where Andrew once again stood and shifted on his feet.

About half an hour later, once the vast majority had entered, Isabella joined their small crew.

“Done with the arrivals,” she gasped. “What a zoo.”

“Yes, I underestimated the potential for disastrous animal prints.” Miranda pursed her lips.

“Only a handful,” Isabella assured her, noticing her critical posture. “The big names are all stunners and in a variety of ways. We did marvelously managing them if I do say so myself.”

Miranda looked past Isabella’s shoulder as she spoke and finally spotted her. An exposed back. Gaultier. Hair twisted into a high bun, leaving the fine skin of her neck and shoulders exposed. She traced the line down her arms and took a deep breath at the cuffs pressing against soft flesh. One arm rested upon Nigel as they passed through the Great Hall.

“We shall see,” Miranda responded to Isabella. “Let’s begin...”

“Unto the breach,” Andrew muttered. Miranda couldn’t have put it better herself. One battle down, and one — that she hoped wouldn’t be a battle — to go.

* * *

Andy and Nigel ascended the main staircase, which was drenched in black velvet and featured shirtless male attendants at intervals upon the steps. Nigel murmured his approval, while Andy registered it all in bewildered shock. In just the entrance, it seemed that Miranda had allowed Isabella to “go there.”

Once they arrived at the top, they entered the exhibition itself. Others loitered to talk before the banquet began, but both Andy and Nigel wanted to see the collection. Andy felt her nerves gather again, almost as if this were all still her work. She shook her head and mentally reminded herself how she’d forfeited any claim to whatever lay ahead.

And yet, Andy instantly recognized the first room. The floor seemed to drip with red lacquer and upon various pedestals stood mannequins adorned in either eighteenth century or eighteenth-century-inspired gowns and suits. Mirrors made to look like blades hung precariously above some of the figures, particularly the more decadent designs that denoted aristocracy in some way. Down the gallery, Andy glimpsed _The Death of Marat_ , the painting she’d spent hours and hours on the phone with Brussels in order to get on loan. Many would visit the exhibition just to see that work, although she never shared that thought with Miranda. It had finally taken a call from Miranda herself to seal the deal, but she still remembered the glass of wine they shared that evening and Miranda’s toast to her before their first sip.

As they walked, Nigel rattled off the names of each designer, the period, and various other important details. Andy enjoyed watching his rapture over the clothes. He had been the first person to introduce her to the art behind fashion, so she threaded her arm through his and let him wax poetic. If she imagined that another walking fashion encyclopedia guided her through this instead, her arm bare against her own and her voice softer but no less passionate, she wouldn’t let it on to Nigel.

They entered the next room and found some figures rigidly posed within confined domestic spaces. The makeshift sitting rooms were covered in tapestries and adorned with fine china. The centerpieces, however, were the ensembles trapped beneath massive bell jars.

“This is interesting,” Nigel muttered. “Moving into the Victorian, hence the domestic. But I’m wondering why these...”

He gestured to the dresses within the oversized bell jars, no doubt custom-created for the exhibition, and Andy answered his unspoken question.

“Those fabrics are dyed with arsenic,” she said. Andy remembered that morning last autumn, when the dresses were then shut-tight and covered in red tape.

“Ah yes,” Nigel wondered aloud. “The green. Smart of them to keep them contained like this. It does the job but also evokes the era’s scientific mania.”

Andy remembered that research session and Miranda’s scrawls across her notepad as they troubleshot different ways to exhibit the dresses once they got to the gallery floor. Andy had shied away from the task, reminding Miranda that this was more in Andrew’s wheelhouse. Miranda explained then how Andrew’s forte was in the creative vision, but that the problem-solving rested upon them. If the solution just so happened to be aesthetically interesting, then so be it. Miranda had smirked, then crossed out “gilded cage” and circled “bell jars.”

They continued down this section and watched as the decor and designs grew more macabre and monstrous. Ripped corsets littered the ground and now the figures lounged across chaises, an obviously vampiric figure in Balenciaga leaning down towards another in Galliano. Opposite these two were another predatory duo, but these evoked a period-specific courtesan and her richly dressed client. Absinthe glasses sat close by, as well as a scattered grouping of ornate opium pipes and lighters.

“She would’ve never gotten away with this at _Runway_ ,” Nigel whispered in Andy’s ear. “Even I’m a bit scandalized.”

“Says the man who pitched a nymphs and fauns spread and emphasized — what was it again? Ah yes! — ‘capturing the models _en deshabille_.’”

Nigel laughed. “Y’know now that you mention it, Miranda approved that idea! It didn’t fly once the board got wind of it, though. Sticks up their asses. Sex, drugs, and violence, though.” He innocently shrugged. “It’s what the people want. So far, we have the last two, but what about...”

They turned into the next room, which finished Nigel’s thought.

“Wow,” Andy said. She hadn’t worked on this section. “I guess I never realized how many designers are into bondage.”

The space represented something like a 1920s Berlin underground bordello, offering a smooth transition from the previous century’s Moulin Rouge setting. Rather than drugs and alcohol, however, this tableau focused on the sex. A female figure in the clear pose and leather of a dominatrix stood poised above a kneeling man, wearing only a skimpy pair of gold Versace briefs.

“Well done, La Priestly,” Nigel said, while rubbing his hands together and smiling. Andy could only swallow through a dry throat and blush.

She pulled his arm and drew his attention further into the room, which no doubt was meant as the centerpiece of the exhibition. The decor screamed 1930s and 40s Art Deco, but to save it from looking like a tacky Miami nightclub, translucent screens were set up every few paces that played scenes from iconic film noir. The piece by Edith Head in one Hitchcock scene stood proudly nearby, while a perfectly cut suit sat in awe next to the dress. A Dior dress came next, while another suited body sprawled to the floor at its feet, a smoking gun nearby.

When she first began planning the exhibition, Miranda had arranged numerous film production photographs together, explaining to Andy their origin and the movement behind them. “The femme fatale,” Miranda had said that evening in the Met basement after another late day. “We’ll start here, then work our way out.”

And indeed, they had. Andy focused on a handful just to keep herself from becoming overwhelmed with the sheer amount of beautiful pieces filling the space. Perhaps because she’d been imagining Miranda’s voice and enjoying the memory, Andy didn’t immediately register how that same voice now greeted her and Nigel.

“Good evening, Miranda,” Nigel replied and moved towards her to give the customary air kisses. He broke Andy’s trance in the process. She finally turned and looked at her former boss for the first time since that winter night months ago.

She looked divine, every inch the fatal woman she meant to evoke. In a deep green that almost looked black in the flickering movie lights surrounding them, Miranda’s dress wrapped around her figure like a constrictive snake, covering her arms entirely and holding her tight in the bodice then loosening slowly at mid-thigh. If she reached out, Andy wondered if she’d touch silk or the slippery scales of an adder. There was no pattern to trigger this thought. The fabric and draping just seemed to writhe. Andy’s blush from moments ago returned.

“Love the dress,” Nigel complimented. “Givenchy?”

“Yes,” Miranda sniffed. “I owed them one after missing their show in the fall.”

“A fashion queen always pays her debts.”

“Mmm, I try to at least,” Miranda spoke to Nigel, but her eyes wandered towards Andy. “How are you enjoying our show?”

“Impeccable so far,” Nigel responded. “I thought I could predict all your moves, but this is way more than the Miranda I knew at _Runway_.”

“Thank you, Nigel.” A corner of Miranda’s mouth turned upward in a grin. “Sometimes we just need a new setting to reveal aspects of ourselves we barely knew existed. I’ve possessed many such opportunities here at the Met, as Andrea may attest.”

Andy choked slightly on nerves or another dry swallow; she didn’t know what. She felt herself shake her head, while gesturing to the room.

“I have to agree with Nigel,” Andy finally spoke. “This outdoes whatever I had imagined, even the sections I remember you planned.”

“And _you_ planned,” Miranda added. Now her eyes didn’t just skate across Andy, they pinned her down.

“The bell jars came out perfect,” Andy said, trying to take some ownership as Miranda apparently wanted.

“Yes, as did the placement of David’s _Marat_ and your blades.”

“You thought of the guillotine blades?” Nigel now turned to her in awe.

“When one of our colleagues suggested actual blades,” Miranda began, “Andrea turned them from such brutalism and offered mirror shards instead. Thematically relevant and aesthetically interesting.”

Andy looked inquisitively at Miranda. _Why aren’t you ignoring me?_ , she wanted to ask. A moment later Andy realized Miranda’s tactic: heaping coals upon her head. Andy kept her jaw proudly up, but nevertheless felt her shoulders bow slightly at the weight. At her bad posture, a gold cuff on her upper arm slipped from its place and fell down to her wrist. With her other hand, she squeezed Nigel to keep him going.

“That’s our girl,” he said. “Let’s move on, shall we? We’ll see you at the dinner, Miranda?”

Miranda nodded in answer, but then moved forward to grasp Andy’s hand where the gold cuff now dangled. Miranda touched the cuff with her fingertips, then smoothly slid it back to its place on Andy’s arm, where it stayed tight against her skin.

“Come find me after the dinner,” Miranda whispered, so softly that not even Nigel heard. She looked into Andy’s eyes right then, and Andy watched a veil drop. Miranda’s gaze changed from distant and guarded to intimate and pleading suddenly.

Despite her earlier thoughts, Andy could only nod in reply, then Miranda slipped from her fingers and sifted through the stream of people enjoying the exhibition. Andy barely noticed the celebrities and glitterati. Mere moments earlier, she’d looked forward to seeing the exhibition and all the famous faces, but now she only wanted to see one face and forget the rest of the gallery. She checked the pamphlet provided at the entrance, glanced at the times for dinner and the — wait a second — Justin Timberlake performance?

Okay, so she was interested in seeing that. But _after that_ , it was her and Miranda.

* * *

“Where have you been?” Isabella muttered through the teeth of a fake smile. “We’ve been looking everywhere.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow to remind her who ran the itinerary here. “I had to take care of something.”

When Miranda averted her gaze to check that her jewels were firmly fastened and question Joseph for the print copy of her speech, Isabella figured it out and grew even more frustrated. For all that this woman cultivated a perfect facade, she was worse than one of Isabella’s teenage boys.

“Does that something happen to have big, brown eyes?” Miranda’s head snapped up and her own icy blue eyes narrowed. Isabella caught her blush too, though. “Glad to see you’ve got your priorities straight — finally. Now, please get up there and start this thing! People are already taking their seats.”

“In all my years, I’ve never had a colleague speak to me the way—”

“Yes yes yes, we’ve been through this already. Move!”

Isabella leapt from the dais in her Versace platforms and circulated around the floor, helping the various hired help get people into their seats. She practically had the seating chart imprinted on her brain at this point, so with some small talk here and a compliment there, she positioned these international movers and shakers towards the seats she’d carefully assigned.

With each person placed, she stared up at the dais and waited for Andrew to give the first remarks and introduce Miranda. Instead, the stage remained empty.

She turned once more to stalk up there and see what was the matter until Andrew finally paced out on his long legs and perfectly-tailored tux to begin. Isabella heaved a sigh of relief, then turned once more to continue directing the last stragglers and ran directly into the person who had kept the party stalled for priceless minutes.

“Well, look who decided to show up,” Isa chided, then pulled Andy towards herself and offered her a kiss on the cheek. “You look great, honey. I thought I got the gist from the picture of it you sent in, but it’s a wonder on you.”

“Thanks, Isa,” Andy smiled. “This is Nigel Kipling.”

“The famous Nigel! I’ve heard so much about you from Miranda.”

“Uh oh,” he groaned. “I’m afraid to ask what sorts of stories.”

“You should be,” Isa winked. “Let me get you both to your table.” She threaded her arm through Andy’s and walked them both towards their left-of-center small table.

“This is breathtaking, Isa. You guys really pulled it off.” Andy’s gaze roamed around the room, and Isa couldn’t help but assess her work as well. They _had_ pulled it off, creating a dining room that was part harem, part Romanov ballroom. The tables and chairs were decked in rich crimsons and golds, then struck through with table settings that shined like exotic, precious jewels. They’d wanted decadence, but with a tinge of imminent tragedy, like the whole thing would fall to tatters in a moment.

“Yes,” Isa agreed with delight. “It’s a far cry from that disastrous first draft you witnessed that night.” She felt Andy’s arm tense slightly at her words. _So it_ had _happened after I left. Idiots_ , Isa thought. _They’d been hanging off each other like they always did, then — what, an hour later? — acting as if the other never existed._

As Andy took her seat, Isabella scanned the room once more and noticed all were seated. Andrew blew into the microphone slightly before he began. “I’ll catch up with you later, babe,” she whispered towards Andy, then sped over to her own seat, sliding into it gracefully and trying to just take a second to breathe for the photos before having to whirl around again before the performance.

Her husband Lucas reached over and placed his heavy, but always comforting hand on her thigh. She looked over and finally took him in for the first time since they’d arrived hours ago. He smiled at her through his closely-trimmed beard, the light red of it tinged with gray around his chin.

“Todo bien?” He murmured, as Andrew spoke.

“Si, mi’amor.” Isa grasped his hand, then pulled it up and kissed his knuckles. She relished this moment of solidarity and affection with the man she’d been with for almost twenty years. As Andrew closed his remarks and Miranda readied herself in the wings, scanning the audience, Isa wondered what it must be like for someone at their age to suddenly find their match, seemingly so “late” in the game. She’d stop teasing Miranda, at least for a little while.

“And now I wish to present our new co-leader who has provided us with the resources, connections, and artistic license that has made this year’s exhibition one of my proudest achievements as a curator. Miranda Priestly.”

The room erupted in applause as she took the stage, acknowledged Andrew’s remarks with a double air kiss, then replaced him at the microphone. Isabella waited for the first few sentences of opening remarks and their photographer to catch her gazing onto the stage. Then, she leaned towards her husband, whispered a few unmentionables in his ear that made him laugh low to himself, then rejoined the chaotic energy buzzing just beyond the dining room as half her staff readied the waiters and the other half prepared for the after-dinner performance.

* * *

Andy listened to Miranda’s smooth tones as she spoke publicly from the stage. Having only heard her express herself to small meetings and within tight conference rooms, Andy thought that her voice might grow in volume as a result, but she was wrong. Miranda let the microphone do the work, as she relaxed the crowd with a short explanation of the exhibition, particular shoutouts to important donors and galleries Andy recognized, and even touches of humor here and there that the audience appreciated with shorts laughs like the exhalation of a collective breath.

She’d always respected Miranda as a personal leadership figure, but that respect only grew as she watched her work a room, not through empty greetings like the ones she and Emily would have to whisper into her ear, but rather through a clear passion for what she’d committed herself to and gratitude towards those who helped her achieve her goals. With each sentence, Andy hoped there’d be some passing remark, an inside joke, or just a look to tell her that Andy was on that list, too. Of people who contributed. But the speech ultimately came to an end, and Andy smirked at her own ego.

“She’s always been good at that,” Nigel spoke as he clapped and Miranda left the stage. “No matter how much the board despised her, they knew no one else could better represent public interests.”

Andy nodded and joined the applause.

The rest of the banquet section of the evening was a blur. Course after delicious course landed in front of Andy, and while the rest of her table of designers and models abstained, she dug in and relished the rich flavors. Between courses, she looked around and noticed Miranda at the head table with the night’s biggest names. Miranda drank champagne and smiled in that public way of hers.

Andy looked and wondered again what Miranda meant by pointing out all her ideas to Nigel and why she wanted to speak to her. What she remembered of “ _Runway_ Miranda” made her keep to her initial thought, that Miranda only sought to pour salt in the wound.

How would Miranda even know there was a wound, though? She’d left Miranda to follow her dreams, so from Miranda’s point of view, Andy should feel happy now without a regret or care. The irony, of course, was that Andy did have her regrets. Some to do with the job, the dream versus the reality, but far more to do with the woman and that part of their last conversation when it suddenly became about something else.

Just the memory made Andy’s heart pound faster. _You’re just like the rest of them_ , Miranda had muttered. Andy had turned those words over countless times since, trying to pinpoint who _they_ were, but she only ever became disappointed at one option and overwhelmed at the other. The most painful memory, however, featured Miranda’s reddened eyes and trembling lips when she’d intimated that Andy was too late.

_You’ve had weeks_ , Andy remembered again for what felt like the hundredth time.

And now she’d had months.

She watched Isabella tap Miranda on her shoulder and whisper in her ear. The old, dull jealousy distracted Andy now. She scoffed at herself for the childish impulse. Whatever Isa had said caused Miranda to leave her seat and follow her.

Shortly after that, the lights dimmed.

“Here comes the show,” Nigel announced with glee.

“I thought JT was after your time, Nigel,” Andy commented with a smile.

“Only by a few years,” he winked. They both stood as the whole crowd did.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?” The pop star’s voice echoed around the hall. The crowd roared, but Andy looked around and couldn’t find Miranda. Isa, on the other hand, stood next to a tall man with dark reddish hair across the room, as delighted as the rest of the crowd.

Andy looked at the stage again as “Rock Your Body” began. God, she loved this song. But if it were a choice between her high school celebrity crush and her current one...

* * *

Miranda could hear the dull roar of the crowd and the music from afar, but the exhibition itself rested in a hush as she walked around the various tableaux with a few representatives from the city’s major papers. They were meant to have done this before the opening this evening, but with the mad dash to the end and a few dropped batons (she’d be firing a few people tomorrow), the show had to go on without this “soft opening.”

Thankfully, she and Harold were able to reschedule this private tour of sorts for right now during the musical performance. She had promised Cassidy and Caroline some mementos from Justin, but she’d get Joseph on that before the night came to an end.

“What do you count as your greatest achievement so far at the Met, Ms. Priestly?”

Miranda’s teeth grated. She slightly recognized this man as a rep from _New York Magazine_. These art writers still didn’t know how to properly address her, but they’d learn.

“Miranda, please. And I take great pride in the partnerships and associations I’ve helped build between the Met and other museums here in New York City — the Brooklyn Museum, for instance — and across the country and even the world.” Miranda felt another reporter join the group behind her, but she continued, hoping her answer would suffice and this would be the last question. “The Costume Institute has long held a central role in the fashion industry through its archive, but now we’ve expanded that archive significantly. And I believe we’ve put on a show that a visiting public will greatly enjoy and begin to accept fashion as an art not unlike the sculptures in the Greek and Roman wing.”

The reporters jotted down her words.

“One more question, Miranda,” the person behind her took their chance. She tried to stifle a groan and spun towards—. “Andrea Sachs from _The New York Mirror_. Can you speak a little more to the relationship between art and fashion?”

Andrea’s full lips stretched into a soft smile. She had neither pen nor pad, but the other reporters did and waited for a great quote.

“There is no relationship,” Miranda explained. “They are one and the same.”

Andrea grinned now and nodded her thanks as the other reporters noted the line. They each took their leave, some offering their congratulations and warm takes on the exhibition.

Miranda noticed one reporter approach Andrea to ask, “You new to this beat?” Miranda glared at Andrea right before she shook her head.

“S-Sort of, yeah,” Andrea muttered. “Here’s my card.” She reached into her gold clutch and passed the man her card from a small stack. He then reached into his tux and passed Andrea one of his own. When she looked at it, her face flushed. “See ya around!” She managed to choke this out as he walked away from her.

A couple photographers lingered for a picture of Miranda in the exhibition. She took her stance between two dresses by Adrian, and the flashes popped. After the photographer from the _Times_ took his last pictures, Miranda said, “Just one more.”

She reached out towards Andrea, pulling her in by the elbow and then resting her hand against Andrea’s smooth forearm. She felt Andrea staring at her in shock for a moment, then she straightened herself and smiled for the photo.

“Thank you. Send that to me please, Bill.”

“I will,” Bill said, then he shuffled forward. Miranda smiled at the old man who seemed to look at all around him in extreme awe. “Look at all the room they gave you. When I think how they allowed this… Poor Mrs. Vreeland. They killed her with the exhibition, keeping it downstairs.”

“We still have to work down there,” Miranda responded, “But now, twenty years later, our work sees the light of day. We wouldn’t be here without her tireless persistence and her original vision. I tried to honor that throughout my process.”

“You have, Ms. Priestly. It’s quite the success.”

They each shared parting nods, then the old man made his way out.

“High praise,” Andy commented.

“Indeed. Bill Cunningham from _The New York Times_. He’s been around for it all, so I won’t pretend that wasn’t a very satisfying review.”

She looked down the gallery to see Harold finishing up with his small troupe of reporters, then following them back out towards the Sackler Wing and the performance. This left her alone with Andrea in the exhibition. She had followed an impulse when she’d told Andrea to meet her afterwards, and now with the young woman standing there, staring quizzically at her, she didn’t know where to begin.

“I’m sure it’ll be the first of many,” Andy finally broke the silence, extending Miranda’s last words as a bridge towards more. “It really is magnificent. As I said before, not even I could’ve imagined something like this.”

“I doubt that,” Miranda replied. “You helped set a lot of the groundwork. By the time you left, much of this was envisioned and put into action. We just had the party to plan.”

“I suppose you’re right. I have a hard time taking any credit for things that I...”

“Abandoned?”

Andrea visibly flinched, and Miranda wished she’d keep her wisecracks to herself for once. A well-timed line wasn’t worth that look, and she reminded herself of a recent therapy session. After Miranda went through her whole history with Andrea from the hurricane in Miami through the _Harry Potter_ manuscript to that last night together in her kitchen, Dr. McDowell helped Miranda identify her frequent use of either biting criticism or impossible tasks to distance herself from her feelings.

Andrea winced and shook her head. “Y’know I had wondered whether you invited me just so you can watch me walk through the slow torture, then meet me towards the end with a ‘told you so.’ I thought you might prove me wrong, but if this is it, then—.”

They still stood near one another from their earlier photographic pose, so Miranda reached out once more and gripped Andy’s hand. Andy felt the manicured curves of Miranda’s fingernails pressing against her palm, while her thumb pressed lightly on her wrist. She’d been looking down before, feeling the weight of Miranda’s spiteful actions, but now she looked up and tried to wonder whether she was still missing something. Why did she insist on giving this woman chance after chance?

Miranda watched as Andrea’s face lost some of its tension; her brow smoothed and her eyes became more open. Closer to how Andrea used to look at her, but still not there yet, not that mysterious look Isabella wouldn’t describe for her. Nevertheless, it was better than a few moments before when she seemed about to leave her again if she hadn’t held on.

“Forgive me. What I mean is...” She searched. What did she mean? “I realize work such as ours does not come with a byline, but it does come with my gratitude.”

Andy laughed outright now and tried to wiggle her hand away, but Miranda held tight.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Andy scoffed. “Don’t you see how almost every word you’ve said to me so far tonight has a double-edge to it?”

“That’s not my intention,” Miranda shook her head. “I saw you and wanted to...wanted to...”

Andy watched this woman hesitate in her impeccable styling and Givenchy dress. She wanted to harden her heart against her, but she couldn’t, despite her best efforts. While Andy’s reserve melted, Miranda took in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and spoke in a clear but hushed voice.

“I wanted to tell you that this couldn’t have happened without you. And I don’t mean the painting, the blades, or the bell jars. I mean all of it.” Her mask finally slipped completely, and Andy realized that she wasn’t looking at a wronged woman bent upon revenge.

They stood surrounded by famous femme fatales, but Miranda wasn’t one of them. Not right now. The movie-theater darkness of this section allowed them to rest within the shadows, but the flickering film reels still lit up their faces allowing them to see one another true. Something must’ve changed because Andy heard Miranda softly gasp. She neared Miranda only slightly, shaking her head.

“No, Miranda,” she began. “You accomplished this all—”

Miranda raised her hand for silence in almost the same gesture she’d used in Paris as they rode the elevator together after Irv’s dismissal.

“Wait. Let me finish,” Miranda said, not wanting to lose her momentum once she finally found the words flowing in the right direction and tone. “In Paris, I needed someone and you were there. When we returned, you were still there. You got me to the other side, Andrea, and I will never forget that.”

“And then I left.” Andy had always been great at self-criticism.

“Yes, you did,” Miranda lowered her chin and leveled her gaze. “The right decision for both our sakes. You needed to move forward, and I needed to learn how to do this on my own.” She swallowed down her nerves and looked everywhere but at Andrea now. “Alone. Always a frightening prospect for me.”

Andy hadn’t expected that. She’d always seen Miranda as a towering figure of female independence. No husband or boss would stand in her way. Along the way, however, Andy had confused independence with self-sufficiency. She failed to see how the figures cut in marble, like those warriors and demigods in the adjacent gallery, always stood alone on their pedestals. You had to crane your neck to get close. While the power was clear, the space would be entirely cold if not for the sun’s beams cutting through the windows.

“I do want to make something clear though,” Miranda interrupted Andy’s reveries and realizations. “Just because I needed you during a very difficult time in my life, doesn’t mean I didn’t see you. I… I’ve always seen you. From the first moment, I felt like I knew you. And perhaps that was presumptuous of me, and it blinded me to your own wishes and goals. I didn’t mean it to make myself superior to you or any such… I just… I’m sorry that my mentorship stifled you, and I also apologize if I depended on you too much.”

“I liked being depended upon by you,” Andy blurted before she could stop herself. She had wanted to put up a fight, make a show of feeling unaffected by Miranda and her ways. Of course, she could barely keep from lunging at the chance to mend this bridge. “And your mentorship… It didn’t stifle me. It made me— You helped me—.” She groaned in frustration. “What I said about just being your assistant, that was an out, a scapegoat. I left because I want to be a writer; you did nothing to prompt my leaving. I’m a better researcher, writer, and professional now because of you. I owe a lot to you. I see that now. ”

Miranda’s heart pounded, but Andrea averted her own gaze, shaking her head slightly and inhaling a quiet breath.

“I want to talk to you about how this ended.” Andrea whispered this to the highly polished floor. She felt Miranda’s hand spasm slightly. When she looked up, she noticed how Miranda winced at her phrasing. “Well, the way we left things,” Andy amended. “It’s all I think about.”

Miranda felt herself awash in relief. Somehow, she intuited the “it” in Andrea’s sentence. She hoped, perhaps errantly, that Andrea wasn’t merely referencing the professional subjects they’d been discussing a moment ago. Andrea’s face had changed, and yes — she saw what Isabella had refused to describe.

“Not tonight,” Miranda whispered. “Or a least, not here.” She looked at her Andrea’s earnest eyes and smooth features. The crimson of her lips shone as if she’d used Cleopatra’s own crushed carmine recipe for red. Miranda wondered if she’d taste of venom or of its antidote.

“When, then?” Andy gasped, whetting her lips after noticing Miranda’s gaze upon them. For countless nights, she would remember catching Miranda at some semblance of this look, always between tasks or while she’d been reading from her laptop with tired eyes. And yet, Miranda had never looked at her quite like this, so brazenly and for its own sake.

“Excuse me, Miranda,” Joseph’s firm voice materialized at their side.

Miranda turned to him as if he were a strong clap during a hypnosis. She saw the guests beginning to mill through the exhibition again, the famous faces and enraptured designers, all looking at the work they’d done. Thankfully, the exhibition was more diverting than her own interlude. At least, she hoped so.

“Yes, Joseph?”

“Isabella needs you in the Sackler Wing.” He pivoted in the right direction, averting his gaze and waiting for Miranda.

She felt Andrea’s fingers like soft stems in her hand and didn’t want to let them fall.

“Which after party are you going to?” Andy asked, eyes darting between her and the back of Joseph’s head.

Miranda laughed. “You’ve obviously spent too much time away from me if you think I’d attend such an affair.”

Andy took a business card and a pen from her purse, scribbling a number on the back of the card and handing it to Miranda. “Do you always come this prepared to formal galas, Andrea?”

“Never know who you might run into,” Andy whispered through a smirk.

A corner of Miranda’s lips curved upward and her eyes seemed filled with humor. Andy thought she’d never seen Miranda more beautiful and allowed herself to relish the thought that she’d brought this out in her. Before she could help herself or the moment ended, Andy lunged forward, wrapped one arm around Miranda, slung it low between Miranda’s waist and hips, and pressed her cheek to Miranda’s. Miranda froze for a moment, but then mirrored Andy’s embrace. Andy felt Miranda’s breath against her ear, but better yet was Miranda’s palm lightly resting against her exposed back.

They kissed on the cheek, not a frigid air kiss, but a warm press of flesh and hint of lips, then Andy felt Miranda’s fingertips slowly lift from the skin of her lower back. They stood apart from one another once more, and Andy couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at the raised color along Miranda’s neck and décolletage.

Then Miranda tilted her head in that familiar way and surveyed Andy up and down. Andy felt a similar heat spread across her own skin, thankfully her dress’s cut would mask most of it.

“Gaultier,” Miranda finally spoke. “Acceptable.”

“I thought you’d like it.” She hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but there was a lot happening right now and involuntary acts seemed to carry the evening.

“You’ve always been good at knowing what I like.”

Although momentarily stunned, Andy still had the wherewithal to turn her neck slightly and watch Miranda walk out with her assistant. Before leaving the gallery though, Miranda looked back once more and smiled softly at Andy through the sea of faces enjoying their exhibition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am VERY nervous about finally getting this chapter posted. I hope you all enjoyed it! Yes, the slow burn is still burning, but there's two more chapters to this story for that to...work itself out. ;)
> 
> Also, now that this chapter's up, I can say that this fic is partly inspired by the documentary The First Monday in May. I highly recommend you check it out if you've enjoyed the small glimpses of the Met's Costume Institute and its inner workings. The moment with Bill Cunningham in this chapter, for instance, is taken straight from the film. (Disclaimer, though: My Miranda is NOT an Anna Wintour stand-in. ...More on that in the next chapter.)
> 
> Thank you as always for the wonderful comments you all have been leaving!! I appreciate each one and look forward to reading your reactions, additions, and moments of feeling seen. Please feel free to let loose in the comments below and let me know what you're anticipating in the next chapter! Where do you think it'll go from here?


	6. Chapter 6

“Tell me what we’ve got so far, Sachs!”

Andy rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling as she responded. “We have testimonies from first-time homeowners and recent immigrants. We have stats and data from that firm you got us in touch with. We have expert opinions from my guy. Between us, we have about five thousand words that we need to cut down and shape into one piece.”

Thomas slammed his hands down on the large table they’d commandeered about two hours ago at a small coffee shop between their two newspaper offices. The other patrons around them jumped at the noise and Thomas’s continued loud pep talk.

“Damn right, we have all that! And what are we going to do with it?”

“You’re so ridiculous,” Andy laughed, as the sounds of steaming milk and smells of espresso permeated the atmosphere. “We’ll pitch it to our papers. When they inevitably say they can’t publish it, we’re pitching the piece to other papers and magazines.”

“And we’ll get it published,” Tommy stated with firm and studied surety. “Then when this shit officially hits the fan, people will know that Andrea Sachs and Thomas Carson got the human story on this epic disaster to them first.”

He got up from his seat and started dancing around like a wide receiver who’d just made a touchdown.

“Yikes! I don’t know how I feel about celebrating our country’s imminent demise, Tommy.”

“Thomas, Andrea! Tommy just reminds people of Tommy Pickles.”

Andy’s phone rattled loudly against the brushed steel of their shared workspace. They seemed to be done with work for the day as Thomas kept doing his victory dance and asked a woman staring nearby, “Like what you see?” So Andy stretched across their piles of notebooks and papers to check her phone, since over the past month she had one very good reason to look forward to an incoming text message or call.

**_M: Where are you?_ **

Miranda always liked to keep things short.

**_A: At Lazy Days, finishing up our writing session. And you? Did you land safely?_ **

Miranda had been in Washington, D.C. this past week meeting with leaders of the Smithsonian Institution. They had remained tight-lipped about why exactly they requested her expertise, but Miranda nevertheless flew out on the promise of some museum connections in the nation’s capital and perhaps the strongest museum collective in the U.S. “I’d fly there just for those ruby slippers,” she muttered to Andy one day while they walked Patricia.

She texted Andy sporadically throughout her trip, sometimes a brief message commenting upon Washington’s dismal fashion sense or a shared reminiscence on the last time she found herself in a capital flitting from one museum to the other. Andy smiled to herself at those messages, now knowing that Miranda looked back on their adrenaline-fueled Paris days with as much bittersweet fondness as Andy herself did.

**_M: I’m assuming you haven’t eaten dinner yet?_ **

Andy furrowed her brow and began typing back.

**_A: No. And you didn’t answer my questions._ **

**_M: I got an earlier flight. I’m already in Manhattan. Just changed at home and will arrive at your little coffee cave momentarily._ **

“Shit!” Andy gasped aloud. She dropped her phone onto the table and instantly began putting herself to rights. She pulled her balled-up blazer out of her bag and began to whip the wrinkles out of it. She wondered if she could ask a barista whether their steamer could take out wrinkles. After assessing the damage, she found only a few creases in the back, which could be easily excused after a long day. She then loosened her hair from its ponytail, stood up, hung her head upside down, and began running her fingers through the roots.

“The two people working at that table are insane,” Andy heard a teenager mutter to her friends a few tables away.

Andy whipped her hair back up, then began tucking her t-shirt into her jeans. A t-shirt, of all days, but she reminded herself that it’s summer, and she was allowed at least two or three basic tees a month now. At least when she found herself in Miranda’s presence.

“What are you up to over here?” Thomas said, as he returned to the table while pocketing a slip of paper offered by the woman who’d been staring at him a few moments earlier.

“Last-minute plans,” Andy gasped, while pulling on her blazer and rifling through her purse for her compact and lipstick. She smoothed the color over her lips, smacked them together, then checked for any stray hairs, blemishes, coffee stains. “Do I look okay?”

“Yeah, you look great! That red is a nice shade on you.”

“Indeed, it is,” another voice joined in behind Thomas, making him spin around to face the new addition to their conversation and pulling Andy’s gaze up from the bobby pins she was trying to locate in her purse.

Thomas’s knees quaked, but he managed to keep his legs beneath him as he stared.

“Holy shit,” he said, “You’re Miranda Priestly.”

“Astute,” Miranda replied. “Albeit vulgar. Andrea, are you ready?”

Thomas dropped into his seat and continued staring, but at her question, his gaze darted back to Andy then to Miranda again, back and forth. Andy wanted to laugh at his deep confusion, but she smirked instead and decided for the nonchalant approach.

“Almost, just need to collect all my things,” she said, while doing just that. “Miranda, this is Thomas, the finance writer I’ve been working with on the story.”

“Ah yes,” Miranda responded, catching on to Andrea’s flippant tone and joining the game as well. She extended her hand to Thomas, who took it with a firm hold that didn’t match his pale face. “Andrea tells me you’re a fan of my work.”

Thomas nodded, his slicked back hair falling into his eyes. Pushing his hair back seemed to prompt the rest of him because he jolted up to standing and looked at Miranda directly now. He was still holding her hand but quickly let go.

“I am,” he choked, then cleared his throat. “I hope to work at a glossy one day that’s as innovative and provocative as _Runway_.”

“A glossy,” Miranda groaned. “I don’t believe anyone’s had the nerve to use that term to my face.”

Thomas’s face went from pale to beet red. “Sorry. Shop talk. I meant... Just... A great book. My apologies.”

“Two vulgarities — I’m counting ‘glossy’ — and an apology. I’m beginning to wonder if Andrea’s high opinion of you might be mislaid.”

“Miranda, stop,” Andy chuckled, noticing how Thomas paled significantly. “You’re going to kill him.”

Miranda grinned at Thomas, then looked again at Andrea, enjoying the sight of her after over a week away. A dark wash of True Religion denim, a Ralph Lauren blazer, and a simple tee. She could use more accessories to add character, but Andrea’s hair and eyes usually did the trick. A few weeks ago during one of their working Sunday afternoons, Miranda had mentioned whether Andrea might consider a shorter cut. Andrea laughed off the idea, and when Miranda questioned her reaction, Andrea blushed and hedged a few answers. Miranda waited for the honest answer and finally got it: “We’d be too...matchy matchy.” Andrea’s cheeks had grown a deeper shade of pink, and Miranda merely smirked in response, while trying to master her hammering heart at the suggestion that they were a pair to be matched.

Since the Met Gala, they’d somehow returned to their former working relationship, although Andrea still worked at _The Mirror_ and Miranda at The Met. It began with coffee together one afternoon, where Miranda caught Andrea up on the Met’s latest bureaucratic shifts and Andrea admitted her frustrations with newspaper drudgery. Andrea offered encouragement and ideas to Miranda, while Miranda essentially told Andrea to grow up, do the work, and stop expecting a high-powered career within one year of moving to New York. No one had ever been good at taking Miranda’s tough love though, so she couldn’t help the gasp of relief she released when Andrea texted her the next day, asking if she’d like to get coffee again soon.

And it had been like that ever since. Lazy Days for a cup of coffee, which Miranda always found lukewarm. When Andrea tried to explain that the slightly lower temperature highlighted the flavors of the coffee, Miranda merely pursed her lips, while Andrea returned to the counter with Miranda’s cup and asked for another. There were evenings in the townhouse, especially when either were working on a project or problem. At first, they each shrank from bringing up detailed professional subjects, but Andy took the first leap and Miranda hadn’t minded, taking a red pen to Andy’s latest or helping her choose which story held the most promise. They’d venture outdoors sometimes too. Walks through Central Park, punctuated with short stops for a glass of white wine or (in Andy’s case) a vanilla ice cream cone. Summer was already in full swing, and Andy still liked to play the part of the Manhattan newbie. Miranda enjoyed watching her.

Sometimes she thought Andrea noticed, but each time the girl would avert her gaze, change the subject, or just stammer her way through the mention of an early morning. They were at an impasse. Miranda knew it, and Andy, catching Miranda’s assessing eyes on her again, knew it too. Neither had any idea how to deal with it or rather _who_ should deal with it.

Andy, for her part, still wanted to have “a talk,” the same one she attempted on the night of the Met Gala and that Miranda continued to push off to a later date. She knew of course that Miranda didn’t do well with words. Well, that wasn’t it. She was exceptional with words, as her red pen edits and witty eviscerations testified. But those were words of criticism, and Andy didn’t want those words anywhere near this conversation.

Unfortunately, Andy also knew that she couldn’t do anything further without a conversation. Their hands might brush. Miranda might fix a smear of lipstick after Andy’s overzealous first bite of a cheeseburger. They might catch each other looking at physical features and places both wanted to explore. They might be each other’s first and last text or call of the day. They might clearly desire. And yet, Andy couldn’t cross the line without knowing what she’d find on the other side.

As Andy slung her bag on her shoulder and brought her cups and dishes to the small cart for cleanup, she heard Miranda extending Thomas an olive branch.

“So _GQ_ was to you what _Runway_ once was to Andrea, yes?”

Thomas looked his surprise, and even Andy was a bit shocked that Miranda had remembered a throwaway comment about the writer she’d been working with on the housing market piece.

“Yeah, I guess you can say that,” he responded and shifted on his feet. “Although I knew the good thing while I had it; Andy only realized that later.”

Andy sidled next to Miranda and cleared her throat slightly as she felt it tighten at Tommy’s pointed observation.

“Did she?” Miranda wondered aloud. “You’ll have to tell me more about this, Andrea.”

If she were ten years younger, she might stomp on Tommy’s foot for _always_ saying either too much or the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Well, he’s got it half right,” Andy began, trying to find her way as she spoke. “I do miss some parts of _Runway_ , but I left when the ‘good thing’ did.”

Miranda’s eyes lit up. _Nailed it_ , Andy thought.

Thomas barely registered what Andy had said, much less the undercurrent passing between the two women. He just stared at the former EIC, until finally Andy broke his attention.

“We’re heading out,” she said, while offering a hug. “Text me in a couple days with where your writing’s at, then we can get back together for edits.”

“Got it.” He extended his hand to Miranda. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miranda.”

“Likewise,” she responded, while firmly shaking his hand. “I doubt this will be the last we see of each other. As I’ve told Andrea, I have high hopes for this piece you two are writing. And you know, I still keep in touch with Jim Nelson every now and then.”

Both women left him to stammer and gasp his way through a farewell, and they walked together out into the summer dusk. After a quick discussion of where to go next, Miranda let Andy take the lead since she was more familiar with this part of the city and knew the spots that Miranda would be least recognized. They walked in silence punctuated only by Andy glancing over at Miranda every few steps and accepting her own excitement that Miranda was back.

They arrived at a little garden tucked between two buildings and overflowing into a courtyard that had once been a small park. A pop-up restaurant had opened there for the summer and served quality wines paired with tapas. Andy had read about it in _New York Magazine_ last week and instantly thought how she’d like to take Miranda there. Thankfully, Manhattan hadn’t reached sweltering temperatures yet, and the evening cooled with an early summer breeze that weaved its way through the assorted seating areas. The hostess led them to a plushly cushioned loveseat next to a low table, and a waiter dropped by instantly to offer them the wine list for the evening.

Andy let Miranda take care of that and took the chance to check out Miranda’s choice of outfit for the evening. Andy realized then that she was Miranda’s first stop after a week-long work trip and that Miranda had chosen this dress just for her. The satisfied feeling that began during their walk over intensified.

Andy had only ever known Miranda in fall and winter shades. She’d missed the transition through spring during their time apart, so she had to quickly adjust to the contrast of Miranda in summer colors. Tonight she wore a blue dress a few shades deeper than her eyes. The material fluttered in drapes and pleats and other weird folds that Andy couldn’t name, but the effect was something like a fine Hermes scarf that had been somehow enlarged then wrapped and pinned to this one body. The knee-length skirt fluttered around Miranda’s bare legs, rustled by whatever particularly strong breeze passed. A nude pair of platforms completed the ensemble. Andy took a deep breath in and savored the moment just as Miranda seemed to make a decision.

Andy nodded when Miranda pointed out a Chardonnay, then their waiter appeared and noted the selection. Miranda tossed the list onto the low table and reclined against the back of the loveseat with a sigh. Andy then asked after the last couple days in Washington when the whirlwind of meetings had finally seemed to catch up to her, prompting Miranda to finally respond to Andy’s last text: _I’ll tell you when I’m back home._ And she did, starting with the politicians and public figures she’d met. When Miranda dropped the names of famous artists, curators, philanthropists, activists, and celebrities, Andy finally held her hand up.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Andy interrupted. “I thought you were just meeting with Smithsonian staff. But now you’re saying Michael Jordan? Shonda Rhimes? Oprah?! There’s something else going on here.”

“Perceptive,” Miranda smirked and leaned over to retrieve both their wine glasses from the table the waiter left them on, so as not to interrupt the conversation. She passed Andrea her glass, clinked them together, and took her first sip. “That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, it’s delicious. Good choice,” Andy remarked. “Back to the meetings!”

“I was also surprised when I walked into the first gathering, but then I was quickly brought up to speed. The next major Smithsonian project is the creation of a museum dedicated to African-American history and culture.”

“Wow,” Andy gasped. “Although I mean… It’s about time.”

“Yes, that was my first response. The rest of the room agreed. It apparently took decades of lobbying, but finally an Act of Congress passed a few years ago and they’ve since amassed the funding and connections to begin acquiring materials to fill what will be an enormous space.”

“How big?”

“Incredibly. The initial plans indicate about half of it underground, then the other half above. It should be about seven or eight levels once it’s all done.”

Andy’s eyes widened in shock. “That’s…”

“Unheard of?” Miranda finished for her. “Yes, well. This nation has much to confront. By the time we were closing the meetings, I wondered whether even eight floors would be sufficient.”

“My God. Nonetheless, it’s exciting! Will you be returning to consult them?”

“Yes. Rather frequently, it seems. I informed them that I would be practically unavailable once the autumn begins, preparing for the next exhibition at the Met, but that I would be happy to make myself available for the rest of the year. They seemed pleased with that. It appears that there hasn’t been much participation from the fashion industry.”

“Uh oh,” Andrea murmured around another sip of her wine. “I know it’s your industry, Miranda, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Andy leaned toward the menu still resting on the table, skimmed it quickly, then ordered a couple cheeses the waiter recommended for their wine and some tapas.

“No, nor am I,” Miranda agreed once Andrea finished. She gazed out at the other patrons around them and began to reflect. “I wonder how much of that I played a role in enabling.”

“How much of what?”

“The racist gatekeeping in fashion.” Andy wasn’t sure how to respond and tried not to exhale too obviously when Miranda continued. “When I was told I’d essentially be leading the acquisition of twentieth-century fashion pieces, I asked whether there wasn’t a more suitable choice from within the community. They answered with a thinly-veiled reminder that I’m practically a two-for-one these days — one foot in fashion, the other in museums — and thus useful. They introduced me to the other experts in the field though. And André was there, of course.”

“André…?”

“Leon-Talley. Editor-at-Large for _Vogue_. Brilliant man, completely wasted on Anna Wintour, but I’ve heard there’s no telling him that. He’ll realize it one day though.”

Their charcuterie board arrived, and both women piled a few assorted pieces onto a shared plate and reclined back onto the cushions. Andy folded her right leg beneath her, sidled a little closer to Miranda, and balanced the plate on her bent knee. They picked at the food as they continued.

“When he heard my questions, he said he’d like to partner with me on this, then he gave me an odd look and said he appreciated that I wanted someone else at the center. I’m sure he doesn’t experience much of that at his usual job. I’d love to see the look on Anna’s face when he tells her who his new work associate is.”

Andy smirked around a cheese-stuffed olive.

“But his presence made me feel more at ease,” Miranda continued, then paused. She took a few bites to herself and looked up at Andrea a few times. “I’m rather excited about being a part of this. I haven’t worked on something this important since the AIDS crisis.”

“That’s wonderful, Miranda,” Andy smiled and felt a shared excitement with Miranda in this moment. She reached out to hold Miranda’s hand. “You went over there not knowing what to expect, and you leave with an important position on a historic project. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” At the squeeze of Andrea’s hand, Miranda felt a lump rise in her throat, but merely responded with a squeeze in return. She wanted to express how she’d waited to tell Andrea the true nature of her visit because she wanted to see her reaction at the news. Andrea’s opinion had always meant more to her than it probably should, but now she wanted far more than her mere respect. “You know… After you left months ago, I went through a bit of a crisis.”

Andy felt herself stiffen at Miranda’s words. They’d lightly discussed their time apart, but since the Gala, they hadn’t fully broached what had happened or what really prompted Miranda to seek Andy out that evening and express her apologies.

“A crisis of identity,” Miranda continued. “I realized how rash I’d been to completely change my career and build myself up again practically from scratch.”

“Not exactly,” Andy added, her hand still clasping Miranda’s and her fingers slowly moving against hers. “You took one aspect of your former job and honed in on it.”

“True, but it’s still a decided shift. No one expected it, despite how well we spun the story. After you left, I stood face to face with this new reality. I didn’t like it, to be honest. I wondered whether I’d made a mistake.”

_Miranda Priestly admitting to a mistake?_ Andy wondered if they’d piped something into the plane Miranda flew on and that now made her a bit loopy. She was talking…a lot, and Andy didn’t quite know how to respond until she finally did.

“That first day in Paris,” Andy said. “After Irv and when we were together that afternoon, I saw this whole new side of you. You’re intelligent and deep and fascinating. I might’ve noticed some of that at _Runway_ , but amidst the rush and the budgets and the advertisers and the deadlines, I think you had to hold back a lot of what makes you…really special.”

Andrea blushed deeply after speaking and leaned over to sip more wine. She left her hand in Miranda’s though, who anchored herself to that connection. Miranda had never heard someone speak of her in this way, channeling both respect and intimacy.

“While I actually miss certain aspects of _Runway_ ,” Andy continued after settling back into the cushions and hopefully taming her nerves, “I think the Met’s a better fit for you, where you can really stretch your legs and tap into all your strengths. And now, look at you! A consultant for a new museum in Washington? That’s incredible work, Miranda, with an incalculable impact.”

“I thought you were all for the power of the pen,” Miranda smirked, while rubbing circles with her thumb against the back of Andrea’s hand.

“Oh, I am, but that’s _my_ strength.” She looked pointedly at Miranda now, as if to say that they’d had this conversation before. Miranda nodded significantly and tried to express how she had learned that lesson too during their time apart. “Whereas I think you might’ve gone a while underestimating or missing your own strength.”

“And what might that be?”

Andy hummed, while narrowing her eyes at Miranda, who waited with bated breath. “I’m trying to find the right word. Maybe, cultivation? Enlightenment. You’re a great teacher, Miranda,” she declared. “Especially when it comes to educating fools who show up to work in cerulean sweaters.”

Miranda couldn’t help but smile, both at the joke and at how perfectly this woman had pinned down what it took months for her and her therapist to meander their way towards.

“And the hours are better,” Andy added.

Miranda laughed. “I think you might’ve nailed it there, Andrea. My daughters actually know what I look like now.”

“Lucky for Caroline and Cassidy,” Andy said. “And for those of us who get to haul you out to random pop-up tapas places for an evening.”

As if hearing Andrea’s words, the waiter arrived again with the food Andrea ordered, and she disentangled her hand from Miranda’s in order to try a few of the small offerings. She offered some to Miranda who shook her head and stole from the charcuterie board instead after another sip of wine. As Andrea leaned forward, Miranda noticed the cut of her blazer and passed her hand down the back as if to iron out the wrinkles with just the press of her palm. She half-expected Andrea to stiffen at the touch, but she merely turned toward Miranda with a smile as she chewed.

“Where are the girls, by the way?” Andrea asked.

“They’ve been staying with their father, while I’ve been gone. I’ll go pick them up tomorrow.” Miranda looked over quickly to Andrea. Despite the past few weeks, Miranda always hesitated before making the following suggestion. Too many in her past had shut her down. “Perhaps, we could do something together this weekend? They always enjoy spending time with you.”

“Sure,” Andy emphatically replied without a moment’s pause. “Always love seeing what random outings those two rascals come up with.”

Miranda smiled softly to herself at this, remembering the odd array of events, museums, shops, and trendy tween must-do’s they’ve attended over the past month.

“When will you have to go back to D.C.?”

“Not for another few weeks, at least,” Miranda answered. “And it helps that André and a few of the others live in New York too. The next meeting will probably take place here, I’d wager.”

“That’s good. I missed you,” Andy said with a smile. “I know we talked practically every day, but it’s nice to have you back.”

“And I missed you as well.” Miranda let the comment hang there for a moment, noting how it seemed to bring pleasure to Andrea. “How has Manhattan fared without me?”

“Oh the usual,” Andy replied. “Funeral parades in black. Trumpets blaring down the avenues. Designers ripping raw fabrics and tossing them to the streets.”

“Careful with the cheek, darling.” Miranda’s wink belied her words, as did Andrea’s blush. “How did _you_ fare without me then?”

“Not too terribly. I got a lot of work done. Thomas has even hit a stride too, so it feels like it’s all coming together now. I’m excited to see what we’ll have by the end of the week.”

Andrea had been filling Miranda in on the housing market piece since they first began spending time together again. At first, Miranda was skeptical. She looked at Andrea with all the superciliousness of a baby boomer explaining home ownership and investments to a millennial. After the first dramatic eyeroll and Andy’s long lecture to Miranda on the subject, Miranda decided to listen. What she heard disturbed her. If Andrea’s sources were correct, this would rock everyone. She thought of the publishing industry she’d left and knew it would be one of the first “non-essential” industries that would feel the cuts. Although she hadn’t said so explicitly, Miranda felt sure Andrea also knew what such a financial crisis might mean for her and the small paper she worked for.

Then, almost like clockwork, the puzzle pieces began to topple. The Dow continued its astronomical surges, but lenders were already crying out for help or shuttering their doors from one day to the other. During their last phone call, Andrea had intimated that they needed to finish the article fast, after pivoting the subject matter slightly for the latest spin, and then find a publisher because this was about to blow up. Miranda wanted to offer some connections, but she tread softly when it came to Andrea’s professional concerns. Line edits and writing advice as a former editor were one thing. She knew, however, that Andrea wanted to make her own way and tried to respect that.

“I enjoyed finally meeting your writing partner in the flesh.”

“I’m sure you did,” Andy snickered. “It takes a lot to knock him off balance, but you managed it in no time. I’m sure if I checked my phone now, it’ll be overloaded with capslocked texts from him.”

“Had you not told him of our connection?” That word felt inadequate — and like she was a suitor in a Jane Austen novel — but Miranda still shrank from the more fitting terms.

“No. I think a part of me hoped for a situation like tonight when I could spring you on him. He really is a huge fan. I’ll never forget the night I met him and how shocked I was at his compliments.”

“Why?” Miranda scrutinized Andy now, who immediately wanted to eat her words. She knew how Miranda detested assumptions about fashion and its acolytes.

“Well, I mean,” Andy began, swallowing a chunk of red bell pepper that she’d pulled from a skewer. “He’s not really the type to—.”

“You’d be surprised who takes out a subscription to any magazine. We have our target audiences, of course, but don’t limit that idea in your head too much. Write and create for certain people, but remember the outliers and every magazine will beg for your work.”

Andy nodded, realizing she was going to get through this one unscathed and that Miranda had given her the perfect opening to renew one of their recent discussions. “So you’ve been able to consider what I’d mentioned the other day about freelancing?”

“Yes,” Miranda responded and recalled how Andrea had intimated her interest in diversifying her pitches. “You should do it and really put your best effort into it. It’s been revealing to watch you work. You were an exceptional employee for me. I don’t mind saying that now. But you’re another thing entirely as a journalist. Forgive me if I ever made you doubt yourself.”

Andy wanted to tell her she had nothing to forgive, but she let the moment pass and breathed through that need to always defend Miranda against herself.

“You’re forgiven,” Andy responded instead. “And thank you for saying that and for helping me become this person. I won’t let you disavow all you’ve done for me.”

“While we’re on that subject,” Miranda fidgeted and moved towards her wineglass for another sip after their waiter filled it again. “I hope this goes without saying — and I don’t wish to impugn your abilities — but I still have practically all my contacts within publishing.” Andrea shifted slightly next to her. “I know you’ll say you don’t need my help or a leg-up, but not even the very best writers get their work on an editor’s desk without an introduction.”

“Are you saying I’m not one of the very best?” Andrea drank from her own newly full glass.

“No, not at all. I merely mean to alert you to certain facts—”

Miranda caught the smirk Andrea tried to hide behind her glass. She playfully pushed against Andrea, who responded with an affronted “hey!” and a gesture towards her almost-spilled glass.

“Ah yes, heaven forbid you stain your cotton t-shirt.”

“Wow! That took a whole—,” Andy looks down at her watch, “—hour and fifteen minutes. That might be a record for you.”

Miranda rolled her eyes at Andrea’s laughter. She placed her wineglass back on the table and decided to try one of the short skewers of vegetables Andrea had ordered. She hummed around the perfectly-cooked crunch and the mixture of spices.

“Good, right?” Andrea tried another one, then looked pensive as she chewed. “Thank you, Miranda. I… I think I’ll take you up on that offer once I have a few pieces that I think are strong enough. I’ll only use your name though if you take a look at the article first.”

“Well, that goes without saying,” Miranda responded. “I won’t have you sending a list of Manhattan’s best bagels to _The Atlantic_ on my recommendation.”

“Oh, she’s on a roll now! And I’ll have you know it’s been ages since I’ve had a bagel. I still can’t walk into a shop without hearing Nigel’s voice in my head.”

Andy shook her head at Miranda’s nod of approval, then took a few more bites of the assorted tapas still left and finally reclined back into their loveseat, feeling sated for the evening and relaxed thanks to the wine kicking in. She should’ve said something when Miranda first mentioned Chardonnay, given her history with its after effects.

Miranda sat ramrod straight, trying one of the olives Andrea had eaten before, then wiping her fingertips against a cloth napkin. When she turned back towards Andrea, she noticed the girl’s sightly heavier gaze and her slow smile. Yes, Chardonnay usually did that. Miranda decided not to linger too long over her decided lack of regret that a more relaxed Andrea sat next to her.

Even after months of working practically as partners and now over another month spending time together as friends, Andrea still acted as if some wall stood between them, some sense of propriety that could not be crossed. Perhaps an evening such as this together would do them good — Miranda mellowed from a day of travel and Andy from the wine.

As if to prove Miranda’s silent observation about the wine, Andy extended her hand towards Miranda’s hip and traced its curve, finally resting her palm on Miranda’s thigh, not with heaviness, but rather to touch the fabric of her skirt. Nevertheless, Miranda almost lost her breath.

“I know this won’t mean much coming from a bagel-eater who wears t-shirts, but I love this dress. Where’s it from?”

“You mean, who designed it?”

“Yeah,” Andy impatiently groaned

“Halston. Vintage.”

“Disco,” Andy whispered, while still tracing the fabric, the blades of her fingers running through the draping.

“Yes,” Miranda sighed out something like a chuckle. “Disco.”

“Has it always been yours? Or did you find it later?”

“Always mine,” Miranda responded, pushing aside how well Andrea gauged her age and that of the dress. “I actually bought this with one of my first paychecks.”

“That’s nice,” Andy said. “I’ve been dreaming of what to do with my first big freelance check.”

“What are your ideas?”

Andrea stayed quiet, and her fingers had finally reached the hem of Miranda’s dress. They fluttered against the ends of fabric, then Andrea turned her hand and ran the back of it up the way it came, along Miranda’s leg. She didn’t stop though. Her hand continued up her side as Andrea straightened her own body and rested her palm against Miranda’s bare upper arm.

Andy was tipsy, but not that tipsy. She knew every move she made and felt as if she were having an out of body experience. She could see every slide of her hand and every gasp of Miranda’s breath. She was done waiting, and when Miranda spoke to her as she’d been doing so far tonight, as an equal somewhere between a friend and a lover, Andy decided now was the time to tip the scales.

“Lots,” Andy hummed, her hand still on Miranda’s cool arm and her thumb rubbing circles against a birthmark she’d found just on the inside of her bicep. “Mostly gifts for you.”

Miranda swallowed and could feel the goosebumps rising along her skin.

“To show your gratitude?” She somehow managed to ask.

Andrea shook her head slowly, finally lifting her leveled gaze to Miranda’s.

“To show you that…,” the momentary wine-fueled daze lifted and Andy found herself staring straight at her future. She lost her voice for a moment, but then remembered that girl who turned around in Miranda Priestly’s office on that very first day and told the truth. “To show you that I care about you.”

The rise and fall of the draped fabric against Miranda’s chest stilled almost entirely.

“You’ve said that to me once before,” Miranda whispered, her head tilted only slightly towards Andrea so near to her.

“Yeah,” Andy breathed in return and almost instantly felt the moment break for some reason.

“Yeah?” Miranda scoffed and shook her head, as if coming out of a fog. “Do you mean it tonight as you meant it then?”

“I…,” Andy felt unsure how to proceed. Tonight was their first time really talking about _that night_ and, to be honest, she had no idea how she’d meant it then. It had felt like a lifeline before, a last ditch effort to keep Miranda in her life, but tonight it felt more like a bridge to another place. “Well, that’s difficult to say. I—”

Miranda shrugged Andy’s hand from her arm, and before Andy could even register what was happening, Miranda was already waiving over the waiter and passing him her AmEx card to pay for their drinks and dinner. He took it while ignoring Andy’s own protests that she wanted to pay.

Miranda heard Andrea repeating her name and asking her to wait, but couldn’t be bothered and began gathering her things.

“What’s going on?” Andy snapped. “You’re so impatient. You can’t even give me a second to collect my thoughts.”

Miranda’s nostrils flared at Andrea’s rebuke, but perhaps she was right. Not about her own impatience, of course, but rather that she hadn’t the time to go through this all over again. The waiter returned with the receipt, which she quickly signed. After draining the last bit of wine from her glass, she stood and made her way out of the courtyard. She was finally done with this inane cat and mouse game that took up more mental and emotional energy than any of her previous relationships combined.

Once she made it to the sidewalk, Miranda looked up and down the narrow street, deciding which avenue would be best for Roy to pick her up. She began walking when she heard Andrea’s voice behind her.

“Don’t skip out on me, Miranda!” She almost yelled at Miranda’s back, but tried to keep her voice low although its tone still hurt. She ran a couple more steps until she was right behind Miranda now. “You can’t do that.”

“Oh really?” Miranda spun on her Gucci heels. “Why? Because that’s _your_ area of expertise?”

“I have _never_ walked out on you.”

“That’s rich! Although perhaps you’re right. You just walk out on conversations instead.” Her voice turned bitter with sadness and frustration. She’d wasted so many months. “What do you want from me, Andrea?”

“What can I have?” Andy gasped, still trying to catch her breath. “How much can I have?”

“Excuse me?” Miranda felt truly lost now.

“I mean…” Andrea covered her face with her hands for a moment and groaned a repeated phrase that sounded suspiciously like, “Do it” or “screw it.” Miranda couldn’t tell which. Finally, Andrea took a deep breath in and lowered her hands.

“I want as much of you as I can have! That night in your kitchen when I told you about the job at the _Mirror_ , you said that I was ‘just like them.’ You meant your husbands, right?” Miranda looked stunned; she wasn’t precisely sure if Andrea had heard her. “They always wanted you to conform to some plan they had in their own minds, whether it was some dinner or the idea of a compliant housewife. I want to know what _you_ want, and I want to be the one who gives it to you…or who helps you achieve it.”

Andy watched as Miranda’s face transitioned from shock to something like fear. Except it wasn’t that. Her eyes had widened, and her breaths came quicker again just as they had a few minutes ago when Andy touched her. _What was on the other side of fea_ r, Andy thought. _Maybe desire?_

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted, I think,” Andy continued. “I used to believe that’s what made me a great assistant, but now I know that I don’t want to just help you at your job. I want to help you by being…” Andy grimaced, trying to find the right word, the one that expressed how much she wanted Miranda. “By telling you that you’re intelligent and deep and that I respect you and am in awe of all you’ve accomplished in less than a year. I loved getting the opportunity to say all that to you just now, about how _right_ this new shift in your life is for you.”

Andy breathed deeply again, glad of how this was going so far, but knowing she was still missing that essential piece that made Miranda get up in an impatient huff and leave her.

“There’s more than that, though. When you asked me earlier how I was without you here this past week, I talked about my work, but I should’ve said how I took our walks a couple times and checked my phone more often than ever and wondered if you were thinking about me while you were down there making history. I missed feeling you next to me, holding your hand, or just catching your perfume before you showed up in front of me.”

Andy took a chance to look around at the scant passersby who thankfully seemed more interested in their evening plans than the two women standing on a New York sidewalk deciding what they were to one another. She then looked at Miranda, who merely stared back at Andy. At that point, she couldn’t help but deflate slightly.

“You don’t talk much, Miranda,” Andy sighed. “Not about us. And that’s hard on me because I need to talk this out.”

“What do you want me to say?” Miranda asked.

Andy deflated completely now. “If I have to spell it out for you, then we should just stop while we’re ahead.”

Miranda grabbed Andrea by her elbow before she started to walk off and pulled her back close. Her cheeks were blotched red in what Miranda knew meant frustration. This headstrong girl would be the death of her.

“What do you want to me _say_ , Andrea, that I haven’t already _exhibited_ to you in almost every other imaginable way?” Miranda’s incredulity bared itself. “Or don’t you know me at all?”

Miranda’s voice cracked at the end of the question, and Andy felt a corresponding tremor run down her spine.

“Yes,” Andy gasped and stepped closer to Miranda, close enough to touch. She reached out and touched the fabric of Miranda’s beautiful dress again, then finally let the pressure of her hand sink into this woman’s waist and her warmth. Despite her nerves, she tried to slip some steel into her voice. “No one knows you better than I do. I guess I’m just—.”

Miranda could feel how Andrea’s hand trembled against her body. She looked around them for a moment, wondering if anyone had noticed them, but Andrea had steered them to the right corner of Manhattan, as she always did. No one seemed to spot Miranda or pay any particular notice. If they were going to do this now, then this was as good a spot as any.

She softly placed her fingertips beneath Andrea’s chin and pulled her gaze upward until Andrea’s troubled brown eyes locked with her own.

“You’re not my assistant anymore,” she whispered. “You’re a person in this—this relationship, too. Speak your mind. I’ve been waiting for you to do just that for quite some time.”

No one had ever accused Andy of reticence, but she supposed that’s what happened when you realized you were smitten with your boss. Yet, Andy heard the hesitance in Miranda’s voice right before those last few words. “Since when?”

“You know precisely when.” The exasperated note was back, and Andy knew she had to commit right now.

“Movie night,” Andy answered. “I looked back at you, and you seemed to be waiting for something. And I changed the subject.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow in answer. Andy had been right the whole time. She shouldn’t have doubted herself or buried what she wanted — and what she knew Miranda wanted — under tons of fear and hesitation.

“Okay,” Andy declared.

“Okay?” Miranda hissed. “What in the hell is that supposed—”

Andy tilted her head on the way and pressed her lips to Miranda’s, effectively answering her question before Miranda could ask it. She’d always been good at that.

Andy slid her hand from Miranda’s side to her back, but tightened the other on the rough strap of her own messenger bag. She needed a sensation to offset the too soft, too gentle touch of finally feeling Miranda’s mouth against hers. She tasted that crisp clarity of the white wine and released her lips’ hold for a moment to softly kiss in small presses until she finally stopped at a gasp from Miranda and the touch of her fingertips sliding between Andy’s blazer and shirt.

“I’m falling in love with you,” Andy said, finally releasing her grip on her bag and letting both her hands reach up to Miranda’s neck. She almost gasped at the lustrous blue of Miranda’s eyes, newly tinted in the last rays of dusk. “I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. Let me love you. I’m ready, and I think you are too.”

“Yes,” Miranda whispered, trying to aim for nonchalance and failing miserably. She looked at Andrea’s radiant and overjoyed face, while grasping onto that same cotton t-shirt she’d reproached earlier and pulling in small tugs. “I am.”

“Okay,” Andrea beamed, her always beautiful smile widening and her hands pulling Miranda closer again.

“If you say that word one more time…”

Andy bent her head, but this time Miranda met her in the middle, pulling her in and curving her body against Andy’s, who gasped at the fit and let her fingertips rub up the back of Miranda’s neck and scratch against her hairline. An impromptu dinner date, a whirlwind conversation, and now she held Miranda close on a summer night.

“Did you already call Roy?” Andrea murmured against her lips once they’d parted.

“Not yet.”

Andrea hummed and pressed her forehead to Miranda’s, breathing in deeply. Miranda ran through the mental list of all she wanted from the rest of this evening and clutched Andrea’s shirt again. Andrea made another pleased sound, which drew goosebumps across Miranda’s skin despite the warm evening air.

“Do you want me to call him?” Miranda asked.

Andy curled Miranda’s hair around the shell of one ear, then leaned in again and whispered, “Please, Miranda. You’ve made me wait long enough.”

At that, Miranda pushed against Andy’s torso and held her at arm’s length. One pale eyebrow raised in clear annoyance.

“ _I’ve_ made you wait?!”

Andy groaned and, like she had all that time ago in Paris, grabbed Miranda’s phone from her purse, flipped it open, and called Roy herself.

“Hey Roy! Can we get a ride?” She looked over at Miranda and noted her astonished expression. “Pronto.”

As much as she wouldn’t admit it right then, Miranda liked when Andy took charge of any situation. Smirking to herself, Andy wondered exactly how far she’d be able to take that advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH! And that's the penultimate chapter! It feels SO weird to be drawing to a close here, but I'm beyond excited for you all to see this chapter and the grand finale.
> 
> Thank you for all the amazing comments and kudos! Please share your thoughts on this chapter and what you hope for the LAST ONE! O_O


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change. So uh... This is NSFW. (In other words, don't 'Share Screen' during your office Zoom meeting.)

Friends and acquaintances milled about in the well-lit ballroom that showcased one of the best views in New York City. They each passed Isabella, offering their best wishes, commenting upon the room and the party, and occasionally making the passing guess at her age.

Forty-nine, she wanted to say. It wasn’t a big secret. One year away from fifty, and she couldn’t remember a happier time. Her youngest son was off to Chicago in a couple months to begin his freshman year of college, while the other two would leave her again at the end of the summer for Brown and UCLA. Her husband’s law firm continued to thrive, and with the Met Gala and a summer of charity work, she felt truly successful and content. Her family surrounded her this evening, and the rest of it was for the people she’d like to thank for the past twelve months.

Well, that and she did enjoy a great party. Might as well make the grandest affair her own.

The summer night still simmered outside, but New Yorkers had already begun to return from their retreats outside the city. Isa had always loved her birthday for this reason; it struck at exactly the right moment, one last hurrah before autumn began and everyone had to turn in their crisp whites and bright patterns for thick fabrics and burnished tones. Isa never did, of course, blaming her heritage for her year-long fidelity to florals, silks, and skirts. If she had to grit her teeth for most of the year, so be it.

Tonight, however, the last warm breeze wafted from the rooftop patio through the open doors and around the golden space. A mix of bossa nova and other jazz fusions mingled with the breeze and kept the evening both energetic and smooth, exactly what Isa wanted for the first half of the festivities. And she let the shift of seasons inspire the party theme — the last gasp before fall and her last year before fifty. Partygoers could arrive in their best summer look or a glimpse of the autumn, but either way, it needed to stay formal. The attendees so far had managed to turn it out.

But then two new arrivals walked into the room and put everyone else to shame.

Miranda Priestly’s gown seemed to drip down her curves and looked like a fine chain mail affixed to her chest, but dipping lower than armor ever would and revealing just a hint of décolletage. The strapless gown shimmered in different tones depending on the light, sometimes a dark gunmetal and others a bright platinum. It felt as if the designer had Miranda’s hair particularly in mind, and knowing her, Isa suspected the designer literally did have her in mind. Large diamonds adorned her ears and one wrist. The Ice Queen, indeed, conjuring winter and a bite of chill that cut like a blade.

Next to her, obviously taking the summer approach, stood Andy in a gown of coarse linen bearing an oversized pattern in whites, greens, and reds, each warring with each other in brightness. When they neared Isa, she realized the pattern mimicked a large tropical plant, the colors of which Andy married with a deep coral lip and sun-tinted cheeks. The dress knotted over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, while Andy’s dark hair fell in waves across her shoulders as if she’d just drifted in from the beach and pulled the gown on as a cover-up.

Another couple of their type might’ve shied away from the obvious connection between their seasonal colors and their ages, but Andy’s grin and Miranda’s barely perceptible quirk of the lips seemed to indicate that they enjoyed the tongue-in-cheek gesture.

They weaved their way over to Isa, who greeted them both with a warm hug and kisses on the cheek. She was delighted to see them, especially since she felt she had something to do with their reconnection. She offered her compliments to Miranda on her dress and became more effusive towards Andy, who enjoyed the attention unlike her date.

“I have a great stylist,” Andy laughed and peeked over towards Miranda.

“I’d say you have the best stylist, honey,” Isa responded, then turned towards the stylist in question. “Where have you been all summer?”

“I’ve had to keep to the city for the most part, but I took the girls to the Hamptons this past week. We just returned this morning.”

“And you, Andy? Did you also manage to squeeze in a seaside retreat?”

“Maybe,” Andy blushed. “But only for a couple days. I’ve had to stay here for my job at the _Mirror_ and also some freelance projects that are about to take off.”

Isa nodded. “I saw your piece last month about the economic mess. You called it.”

“Yeah,” Andy grimaced, “Too bad all I feel like is Cassandra. Not much to do at that point besides just watch it all tumble.”

“Well, maybe the tide is changing,” Isa commiserated. “Finally, the rest of the world will see what we New Yorkers have always known about Wall Street assholes. And next year we’ll hopefully have a historic first in the White House, whether it’s Clinton or Obama.”

“I hope so,” Andy sighed. “Miranda’s a bit less optimistic, so I have to admit it’s nice to hear your take.”

Isa noticed Miranda roll her eyes and thought this might be a dispute between the two — Andy’s young optimism up against Miranda’s hardened experience. And to be honest, Isa understood Miranda’s perspective. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Here they stood at the dawn of the twenty-first century, and it was already seeming like the dawn of the twentieth. Isa shook her head.

“ _Bueno_ , none of that tonight. I refuse to allow reality to infiltrate my party.”

“Good call,” Andy smiled and looked around, finally finding the bar. “Want a drink, Miranda?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Champagne.”

Isa watched as Andy left but not before lightly squeezing Miranda’s upper arm and giving her a wink. Once she was out of earshot, Isa finally pounced on Miranda.

“That took you long enough,” she said. “It’s one thing to hear about it from you on the sparing phone calls you allow, but to see you two in the flesh…”

Miranda hummed and her cheeks pinked slightly, even beneath the finely brushed makeup.

“I knew you’d look gorgeous together,” Isa gloated.

Miranda couldn’t help but smirk now, but still refused to look at Isabella directly. Instead, her gaze followed Andrea across the room as she seemed to strike up conversation with a woman at the bar, apparently another journalist or something of the kind. As she watched Andrea’s easy smile and wide gestures while speaking, she relished the complete absence of fear or jealousy. She’d never felt such trust in another person.

“Thank you for that, by the way,” she addressed Isabella finally, who furrowed her brow in question. “If not for your…unfiltered commentary, I doubt I’d have taken the chance.”

Isa knew it. “Meddlesome matchmaking — it runs in my blood. My mother’s handiwork actually got me this one.”

Lucas had sauntered towards them and now reached for his wife with practiced ease and pulled her close by the waist.

“Good evening, Miranda,” he extended his hand, which Miranda shook. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but one of our boys would like his mother to meet the new girlfriend’s parents.”

“Aye Dios, no,” Isa groaned.

Miranda didn’t need much Spanish to understand that and grimaced in half-hearted sympathy. She personally was not looking forward to that time in her daughters’ lives.

“I guess I’ll catch up with you later, Miranda.” Isa rolled her eyes, but still began to walk with her husband. “I want to hear more about this new project you hinted to me the other day.”

Miranda assured her that they’d stay; she wouldn’t be doing her usual quarter-hour lap and disappearing act. There were few people in Miranda’s life who she’d devote this time to, but Isabella had somehow wormed her way into that exclusive group in less than a year. She counted the woman as a friend more than a colleague now.

And speaking of people who’d gone from professional to personal, Andrea returned just then and passed Miranda her glass of champagne.

“Where’d Isa go?”

“A forced meeting with some prospective in-laws.”

“Yikes,” Andy shuddered.

“My thoughts exactly.”

Andy clinked her champagne glass against Miranda’s, then reached out for her fingertips and held them lightly.

“This okay?” She whispered.

“You don’t need to ask permission.” Miranda squeezed Andrea’s hand.

“I know. This is just our first big…thing.”

Although seemingly placid and poised on the outside, both women were slightly more on edge than usual and tried not to notice the sidelong glances of other guests finally verifying what had previously only been a whisper through the grapevine.

Their summer had been delightful, but intimate. After finally admitting their feelings for one another, they grew acquainted all over again, but this time as romantic partners. Miranda realized how much she needed to catch up to Andrea, who already knew how Miranda took her coffee, her favorite parts of the city, and the surprises she’d like best. For her part, Miranda felt as if she were constantly discovering, whether it was meeting Andrea’s friends, learning her pet peeves and favorite movies, or finding that spot just below the left side of her collarbone that always made her shudder in Miranda’s arms.

Miranda gazed upon the spot now, blessedly left uncovered thanks to the asymmetrical cut of Andrea’s dress. As soon as she saw this dress, Miranda knew she must have Andrea in it. When the invitation for Isabella’s party arrived, she had Andrea’s dress in mind even before her own.

That happened a lot now actually. The more she knew of Andrea, the more she wanted to do for her, to meet her tastes and expectations. They never discussed their respective ages, Miranda’s previous marriages, or her children as impediments to their relationship’s success. Yet, Miranda couldn’t help but imagine ways or actions that would tip the balance back in her favor and show she possessed more than what an outsider might call “burdens.”

Andrea, for her part, never brought up these issues either, and whenever they skirted those subjects, Andrea grew angry and insulted that Miranda or anyone else would even think to turn who Miranda was into a set of problems. Andrea adored Miranda’s children, accepted her past, and loved her. She hadn’t said those exact words yet — although there had been a few variations on the theme — but Miranda knew it. That knowledge prompted Miranda to offer all the best she possibly could to this woman in the hope that one day those critical voices still swirling in her head would finally be silenced.

“Miranda!” A voice from the crowd interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see a familiar face from the Smithsonian heading her way.

“Good evening,” Miranda replied once her fellow fashion researcher arrived. “It’s lovely to see you here. How do you know Isabella?”

“Oh, Isa and I go way back. We were wingwomen back in our clubbing days.”

Andy watched as Miranda greeted this woman wearing a wonderful tomato-red dress that looked almost like a swimsuit up top, then struck out from her waist in a stark A-line. The red against her dark brown skin further set off the gold jewels adorning her wrists and fingers. She looked over at Andy a few times, who only smiled.

“Ah yes,” Miranda said. “This is Andrea Sachs. She’s a reporter for the _New York Mirror_ and also does some freelance. Andrea, this is Robin Willis.”

Miranda and Andy had gone back and forth about what to call one another. Miranda hated the term “girlfriend” and its frivolous connotations, while Andy couldn’t stand the gray formality of “partner.” Until someone came up with a better term, they’d just use each other’s names and let people get the rest of it in their own time.

“Nice to meet you,” Andy extended her hand. “I’ve heard about you from Miranda, who’s only said how much of a help you’ve been throughout the process. You’re stationed in D.C., right?”

“That’s right,” Robin replied. “I work for the _Post_. Are you also in fashion?”

“No,” Andy laughed. “Miranda’s always been as close as I’ve ever gotten to the industry.”

Miranda felt the slide of Andrea’s palm along her back. Rather than slink away as she had so many times before from her ex-husband’s possessive hand, Miranda sank back further into Andrea, knowing that only warmth and affection would meet her there.

Robin continued to pull Miranda’s ear on the latest hoopla at the Smithsonian. Andy excused herself after noticing the man who’d given her his card at the Met Gala. She hadn’t remembered until now, but she decided to do what Miranda always advised and take a chance at a new connection. If that connection just so happened to be at _Vanity Fair_ and might be a considerable jump up from her current pitches, then so be it. She knew she had Miranda in her corner, but she liked fighting her own battles and getting her own wins. The better to surprise Miranda with the success and use it as an excuse for a festive evening.

An hour passed in this way, both women together and apart circulating around a room that somehow held some of the most influential people in an awe-inspiring array of different fields. Andy felt both impressed and weirdly taken aback. Attending one of Isa’s parties felt like an education — in parties and in just the national zeitgeist. Andy returned to Miranda once more when she noticed she’d run dry again and enjoyed the satisfied look Miranda gave her once she sidled up near her. Another clink of glasses and another drought of champagne drained, and Miranda looked up at Andy with a gaze both wistful and content.

“When did you want to get going?” Andy asked.

“Not yet,” Miranda said. “Knowing Isabella, there’ll be some grand act before the evening’s falling action takes over.”

As if in answer to Miranda’s words, a woman took the stage where the band played and tapped on the mic a few times. The music stopped, and everyone turned towards the speaker.

“Oh my God,” Andy gasped with all the force of her years in high school musical theatre. “Is that Rita Moreno?!”

Miranda grinned. _Still the tourist_ , she thought.

* * *

Andrea tilted her head back against the leather of the town car and let out a seemingly exhausted sigh. Miranda turned to look at her and smiled at her slouched posture.

“That was some party,” Andy said. “Her son spun me around like a top. What was his name again?”

Andy spoke aloud, but knew that Miranda’s name recall wasn’t the best.

“Gabriel,” Miranda whispered nevertheless. “He’s her middle child, goes to UCLA.”

After Rita Moreno had said a few words about Isabella and toasted her last year before fifty, another band had taken the stage, and they’d brought the party’s energy up a few notches. Andy had yelped at the volume of the first notes from the brass instruments, then percussion had taken over and suddenly the once formal and self-contained space turned into a dance floor. After overcoming her initial surprise, Andy had been swept up in the chaos, while Miranda stayed on the outskirts, enjoying the spectacle and continuing to catch up with friends and acquaintances who’d been gone for most of the summer.

Now in the quiet of their town car, Andy nodded at Miranda’s answer, then slid closer to her and pulled her hand onto her lap. “Wish I could’ve danced with you instead.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time for that.”

“But you’re so great at it,” Andy whined and brought Miranda’s hand up to her lips, softly kissing her knuckles.

“At home. To slow music. With no one watching.”

“The best.”

At Andrea’s happy tone, sighed against the back of her hand, Miranda looked again at her lover — she didn’t mind using that word in her thoughts — as Andrea rested her head against the seat once more and cradled Miranda’s hand in her lap, her thumb still rubbing circles across it.

She drank in the sight of passing streetlights reflecting off Andrea’s pale skin and dyeing her long hair in copper hues. She wanted to lean over and press her lips to Andrea’s neck, right where her pulse beat softly but clearly enough for Miranda to see. Miranda’s eyes darted to the front of the car. Roy kept his focus dutifully on the road, but Miranda still wouldn’t risk it.

So instead, she just raised her other hand and pulled Andrea’s hair back to get an even clearer look at the column of her neck and the curve of her shoulder. She let the backs of her fingers slide softly down that gentle slope. Andrea raised an eyebrow and opened one eye to look over at Miranda. She must’ve found something amusing there because her lips quirked up slightly and hummed.

The car finally began to slow, prompting Miranda to turn and notice they’d arrived at home. They both bid farewell to Roy and thanked him for the late drive, as he helped both women out of the car. 

The dark hush over Miranda’s street spoke to the hour that they’d finally arrived back at the townhouse and walked up its steps. As Miranda opened her clutch and pulled out her key, she felt Andrea’s body draw near until a slender arm wrapped around her waist from behind. Miranda sighed in relief to be home and with an apparently not _too_ exhausted Andrea pressed behind her. Miranda pushed her key into the lock and simultaneously felt Andrea’s lips brush against her earlobe.

“I want you inside me,” those same lips whispered. Miranda shuddered, forgetting how she’d unlocked the door, but failed to turn the handle and enter. Andrea followed through with her other arm, opening the door wide, walking around Miranda, then pulling her inside and shutting the door behind her.

In the next instant, Andy pressed Miranda against the closed door, cradled the back of her head with her hand and tasted her girlfriend’s lips. (Andy didn’t mind using _that_ word in her thoughts.) She heard the slap of Miranda’s sequined back dropping to the floor, then both Miranda hands ran through the hair at Andy’s temples, pushing it back and tangling in the long, dark tresses. Andy moaned at Miranda’s blunt nails against her scalp and pressed her tongue against Miranda’s lips, which parted with a groan. Their sighs and the soft sounds their lipsmade echoed against the foyer’s marble floor.

“I can’t tell you what it took for me not to start the night like this,” Andy groaned after dragging her lips from Miranda’s and running them up her jawline. She bit down softly on the skin right below Miranda’s ear. The house was pitch dark behind them, yet Miranda shone in the moonlight as did Andy’s lust-filled brown eyes.

“Yes, well, I nearly gave Roy quite the show during that car ride home,” Miranda gasped. “So let’s consider us both famished.”

She curved her hand around Andrea’s bare shoulder, then kissed and sucked the soft skin there, leaving behind lipstick and hopefully a few marks to mingle with the freckles Andrea had newly acquired on their Hampton beach.

Andy gasped at a well-placed bite to her clavicle and groaned when Miranda soothed it with her tongue. God, she loved how this woman fucked her. At turns soft and rough, never leaving Andy a second to get complacent or feel like she knew what would come next. She hoped she gave as good as she got though. She pressed her palms against the hard underwiring beneath Miranda’s dress and enjoyed the power of moving Miranda’s whole torso with just a firm grip.

“Let me look at you,” Andy whispered in the dark, holding Miranda back at half an arm’s length and letting the sting at her collarbone settle in. She released her hold on one side of Miranda’s waist and ran the tips of her fingers from the hollow at the base of Miranda’s throat to the bottom of the dress’s deep V neckline. She could almost feel Miranda’s heart pounding against her sternum. “You were the most beautiful woman there tonight. Even when I tried to circulate, tried to be the good working girl, I could barely take my eyes off you.”

Miranda closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to calm herself after gauging Andrea’s mood and knowing she’d be going at her own preferred pace. Miranda usually liked the quick and hot approach, while Andrea needed time to settle in. She took her time very slowly, turning up the heat by degrees until Miranda realized with a shock that she was burning up.

“I’ve spent the whole night thinking of different ways I can have you here once we finally got back.” Andy hooked her fingers into the top of Miranda’s dress and pulled her closer until she finally spoke in gasps against Miranda’s lips. “I thought maybe the ground floor, windows open and the last bit of a warm breeze coming in from the street, so that a passerby might hear you when I made you come. But then I thought, no, maybe the kitchen. We’d have a quick late night snack, then I’d lay you back against the countertop, lean down, and lick you” — Andy pressed her hand against the apex of Miranda’s thighs — “while your heels dug into my back.”

“Please,” Miranda whimpered against Andrea’s lips and let the tip of her tongue trace the soft texture of Andrea’s bottom lip. Andrea bit down against her own lip and pulled it through her teeth, as if to savor Miranda’s taste on her own mouth.

“What do _you_ want?”

“Either one,” Miranda groaned. “Both. Please, just...”

“I ended on a better idea though,” Andy continued her earlier train of thought, seeming to pay no heed to Miranda’s writhing body and roving hands against her back, tracing the zipper of her dress. “I’d let you surprise me.”

And with those words, Andy slowly extricated herself from Miranda’s grip and stepped backward into the dark entryway that led up to the stairs. Miranda watched her slowly move further and further step by step and heaved in a few deep breaths. _What would she do with this woman?_ She understood Andrea’s indecision and felt almost paralyzed with all the fantasies that came roaring in, Andrea’s own ideas at the forefront. But then she noticed how beneath Andrea’s hungry gaze, her smile stretched in its constant loving curve. Miranda’s heart swelled for a moment, and she nearly shook her head at her own luck.

Finally, coming to a decision, Miranda stalked toward Andy, grasped her hand tightly, and glided up the stairs. At the first landing, Miranda tugged Andy’s arm and pulled her in for a deep kiss. Andy felt the banister press into her lower back as Miranda leaned over to passionately kiss her lips and run one hand down the front of her dress.

“Keep up,” Miranda commented, while kicking off her heels and continuing up the staircase in the next instant. She threw a few backwards glances her way, checking to see that Andrea still ran with her. Andrea’s hooded gaze slid from Miranda’s bare feet up her body as it stood a few steps above her. She reached back to take off her own platforms, then gripped the bannister and lunged towards Miranda, who barely slipped past Andrea’s grasp and gave chase.

When they reached her bedroom door, Miranda hoped Andrea wasn’t disappointed. They’d made love in almost every room of this house, and the bedroom was of course a frequent setting. Tonight felt different, though. She’d finally shown the world her Andrea, but now she wanted her all to herself in the most intimate place in her home.

Andrea’s stopped at the threshold for some reason, while Miranda walked over to the lamp on her nightstand, turning it on until a subtle glow suffused the space and drowned the room in a mix of shadow and light. Miranda’s dress turned gold with the reflection, and Andy gasped at the sight. She hung back to get another look at Miranda, but then made her way around Miranda’s bed. Andy finally reached towards her again, not with possessive or urgent hands, but with the slow slide of one strong arm around her waist and a soft palm against her neck. Miranda’s hands ran up the smooth skin of Andy’s upper arms and settled around her shoulders.

“Here, Andrea,” she whispered against her neck and noted the goosebumps that rose. “Just you and me.”

Andy nodded and decided to get started before her chest caved in from whatever this new feeling was that almost overwhelmed her. She reached up to grasp Miranda’s arms from around her shoulders and pulled her hands between them, kissing her fingertips, then pulling one arm to turn Miranda around.

Miranda felt Andrea’s breath against her shoulder blades, then the soft press of her lips moving across her upper back. Andrea’s arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer as now she tasted Miranda’s skin with the tip of her tongue. She stopped at the top of her spine with one more kiss, then splayed her hand against Miranda’s back for a moment before finding the zipper at the top of Miranda’s dress and pulling it down.

Andy spun Miranda once more and peeled the dress from her torso, instantly baring her breasts to the lamplight and her own hungry gaze.

“Huh,” Andy gasped. “Thank God for built-in corsetry.”

“One of the many gifts of haute couture,” Miranda murmured, not trusting her voice to hold steady.

Andy hummed in response, but seemed far more interested in what that gift revealed. The weight of the dress allowed it to slide almost uninhibited down the length of Miranda’s body, slowing for a moment around her hips until Andy pressed with her fingertips, and the whole thing slipped down to the floor with a shimmering thud, leaving Miranda bare but for a strip of black lace thong.

Andy pulled Miranda towards her, one arm on her back and the other immediately pressing against one breast and rolling its nipple through her fingers. Miranda whimpered softly, but nevertheless got to work on Andrea’s own dress, finding her zipper beneath the folds of linen and silk and pulling it quickly down. She pushed against Andrea for only a moment so as to pull the thick knotted strap off one shoulder and watch the dress slip down her body.

Andrea wore a scarlet strapless bra that held her generous breasts at such an angle that they seemed to almost overflow against the flimsy lace. Andrea’s heaving breaths certainly weren’t helping Miranda keep her cool, neither were the matching lace boyshorts that wrapped around the plush curves of Andrea’s hips.

Looking at Miranda now and noticing her lust-filled assessment of her own lingerie, Andy felt herself get instantly wetter, the expensive but useless lace doing nothing to keep her obvious arousal from smearing her inner thighs. Miranda seemed to notice this too and, with something uncannily like an evil smirk, ran her fingertips up the front of Andy’s thighs and then hooked them around the thin waistband.

“I want you so much, Miranda,” Andy whispered, finally breaking the silence. “I don’t know how long I’ll last. I’ve been trying to go slow but tonight—”

Still standing opposite one another, Miranda turned her hand and pushed her fingers beneath the lace and down closer to where Andrea wanted her.

“What did you say to me,” Miranda said, in the low but commanding tone she often used at work, “on the stoop as I opened the door?”

Andy’s breath stuttered as Miranda’s fingers pressed against her slick folds. Miranda expertly curved her fingers around Andy’s clit, not touching it directly, but still offering some pressure. Then finally, the flat of her palm covered her entirely and Miranda waited.

“I said,” Andy swallowed, “that I want you inside me.”

Miranda bent two of her fingers and softly pushed them into Andrea, whose body seemed to pull Miranda in almost involuntarily. Andrea gasped as the tips of Miranda’s fingers breached her. She reached out for Miranda’s shoulders as a support, and once Andrea had that hold, Miranda plunged in deep. Andrea moaned loudly, and her knees shook. Miranda pumped in and out slowly a few times, enjoying that sweet nearly suffocating pressure on her fingers, and one of Andrea’s knees almost buckled with each thrust. At that point, Miranda pushed the lace off Andrea’s hips and let it fall silently to the floor.

“Lie back, darling,” Miranda whispered, still thrusting deeply but following the curve of Andrea’s body as she slid onto the bed. Andrea’s legs widened and finally cradled Miranda’s body once she’d completely joined her. They both sank into the soft sheets and relished the feel of skin-on-skin with only scraps of rough lace to interrupt the slide of their bodies against one another.

Andy groaned at each thrust, feeling as if Miranda were touching some new part within her and that this part would shatter her into pieces once she finally let go. But not yet. She gasped each time Miranda almost slipped her fingers out entirely, but then Miranda added another finger and Andy couldn’t stifle a shout at the extra stretch.

“That’s alright?” Miranda gasped at the sweet bite of Andrea’s nails digging into her back.

“Yes,” she responded. “Harder, Miranda.”

Miranda obliged her and watched as Andrea’s breasts bounced softly. Miranda couldn’t help but pull one pane of lace down entirely and suck a hardened nipple into her mouth. Andrea’s answering moan and quick grip to her hair let Miranda know she was on the right track.

Andy raised one knee and wrapped it around Miranda’s hip, opening herself up to a new angle. She felt her spine bow off the bed, pushing her breasts against Miranda’s hot mouth and pulling Miranda’s fingers deeper into herself.

“Hnngh, Miranda,” Andy cried. “I—I can’t much longer. Please—please just—”

Andrea gasped into a pillow at the top of the bed, while her neck and chest blushed red. Miranda knew what she herself wanted and hoped Andrea would want it to. She pulled her fingers from inside Andrea, who immediately gasped at the absence, and moved her own body down Andrea’s, leaving soft kisses from her breasts, down her torso, across her hips, and finally pressing a kiss right above Andrea’s sex.

“Oh fuck yes,” Andy gasped. “Yes, Miranda, please!”

Without any further ado, Miranda pulled Andy’s clit into her mouth with the tip of her tongue and sucked. Andy shouted and her back bent off the bed. She felt Miranda’s hands push her thighs wider apart and pull them onto her shoulders, then Miranda rested one arm across Andy’s hips and pushed her back down to the bed and closer to her mouth. Miranda’s tongue kept circling her clit until Andy could do nothing but gasp and cry out incoherently. She was so close, if only...

Miranda plunged two fingers back into Andrea and curved them upward, finding that same spot that had been slowly driving Andrea mad just a few moments ago. It seemed the combination was the thing, and Miranda heard her own name shouted above her and felt Andrea’s thighs spasm around her. Andrea spilled into her mouth, and she moaned at the sweet taste. For a second, she thought back on how long she’d lived without this taste as part of her palate and knew she could never live without it again.

Most times, Andy would beg Miranda to stop just at the first onset of her orgasm, but this time she let Miranda’s tongue and mouth continue until Andy felt herself cresting the wave all over again and falling over into another bout of pleasure, this time even more shattering and strong from the top of her head through the tips of her toes.

Miranda heard Andrea’s gasps end in small moans and felt her smooth thighs relax around her shoulders. She moved away from Andrea finally, but not without one last kiss and flick of the tongue, which sent another jolt down Andrea’s legs. She slowly made her way up Andrea’s body, leaving soft kisses up along the trail she made her way down earlier. Once she stared face to face with Andrea, Miranda thrilled at Andrea’s still ravenous eyes and her lips reddened from biting no doubt. Miranda soothed those lips with her own, and Andrea moaned at her taste on Miranda’s tongue.

Andy pulled Miranda against her and wrapped her arms around her shoulders until they slowly turned and lay side by side, still kissing each other and weaving their legs between one another’s.

“I didn’t think I could do that,” Andrea whispered. “Have one orgasm after another. I thought that was just an old lesbian’s tale.”

Miranda smiled, while finally unhooking and discarding Andrea’s bra and resting a palm against one heavy swell. “I’m happy to oblige.”

“You’re incredible,” Andy said, while enjoying the soft press of Miranda’s hand against her breast. “I’ve never had sex like the kind I have with you.”

The blush in Miranda’s cheeks flowed down her neck and towards her chest. She still didn’t know how to accept compliments, but Andy thought she’d keep offering them until Miranda grew used to it. She wondered how such a brilliant and beautiful woman could have gone so long without knowing precisely how perfect she was. None of that though, as Miranda usually said. Andy was here now and things would change. They already had.

Andy raised her knee slightly until her thigh brushed between Miranda’s legs. She pulled Miranda in closer with her hands at her back, then again flexed her thigh against Miranda, feeling her wetness coat her skin. Miranda’s hands squeezed Andy’s breasts tighter in response, and she sighed against Andy’s shoulder.

“You’re so wet,” Andrea whispered in her ear.

Miranda felt a new rush of fluid at Andrea’s words and nuzzled her burning cheeks into Andrea’s neck. She hadn’t wanted to say anything before, but she wondered what Andrea would think if she returned her sentiments, how she’d never had sex like this before. Andrea was still young, so the discovery of a new sexual register wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. For her, however, the admission that Andrea was her best lover brought an ounce of bashfulness for some reason. She flexed her hips against Andrea’s thigh and moaned against her strong shoulder.

She felt Andrea’s hands move down her back, slowly pulling Miranda’s body on top of her own until Miranda stared down into Andrea’s face, still flushed from their prior exertion. Miranda leaned down on her elbows, pushed her hands into Andrea’s hair, and kissed her soundly on the lips, then just lost herself making out.

Andy could barely take it. Just having Miranda on top of her like this was already making her throb again, but she needed to take care of her girlfriend who was currently panting against her lips and writhing against her sweat-coated body.

She let her hands drop to Miranda’s ass and squeezed, while simultaneously propping one foot up against the mattress and pushing her thigh against Miranda once more. She let go of Andy’s lips and groaned.

“Touch me, Andrea,” she whimpered and licked at a drop of sweat in the hollow of Andrea’s clavicle. Miranda rolled her hips, unsure what she wanted more: the friction of Andrea’s thigh between her legs or the tight grip of Andrea’s hands on her ass.

She felt the shake of Andrea’s head against her temple, then suddenly one hand worked its way between them until Andrea laid it flat against Miranda’s chest and pressed upward. Miranda’s back straightened and her knees bent until now she kneeled above Andrea’s hips.

Andy’s hand continued its slow travel down Miranda’s torso. Fuck, she loved this view, still lying back on the bed and looking up at Miranda, her body both straight and relaxed at once. Her eyes, however, darted around Andy’s own body in a fevered chase.

“How do you still have these on?” Andy chuckled to herself as her fingertips hit the edge of Miranda’s thong.

“A wonder they haven’t disintegrated.”

Smiling devilishly, Andrea rose up and, still with Miranda writhing against her lap, she took the ruined thong in both her hands, snapped it in two, and pulled the ripped fabric out from between them and tossed it to the floor.

Their gazes almost leveled now, Andy locked eyes with Miranda and finally dipped her fingers down and gasped at the heat she met. Miranda wrapped her arms around Andrea’s shoulders and pulled herself closer, feeling as one of Andrea’s fingers entered her.

“More,” she gasped against Andrea’s neck and felt Andrea circle her opening, then add a second finger. Her thighs quaked, and her muscles pulsed against Andrea’s slim fingers, which curled within her.

“You feel so good,” Andrea panted. “I’ll never get used to this.”

Andy pressed kisses across Miranda’s pale shoulders as she thrusted into her, and Miranda rolled her hips in tandem. Her exhaled breaths felt hot against Andy’s neck until Miranda gripped Andy’s earlobe between her teeth, distracting Andy from Miranda’s hand wandering down and pressing against Andy’s clit.

Andrea looked at her with shocked eyes and panted.

“N-no,” she whimpered. “I wanted to do for you.”

“Together,” Miranda gasped and sucked her earlobe softly.

Andrea set a determined look on her face and wrapped her arm around Miranda’s waist more tightly and thrust harder into Miranda, who screamed at the new depth and change of the touch against her. At that point Miranda could do nothing, but focus the last few of her brain cells on continuing to rub Andrea lightly and surrender the rest to the feeling currently surging between her legs.

Miranda’s gasps grew in volume until they almost became shouts, but Andy kept going and felt her own orgasm cresting again. She curled her fingers upward and dropped her thumb directly onto Miranda’s clit. She really shouted then.

“Yes, right there,” her hoarse voice cried. “Don’t stop, Andrea.”

“I won’t,” Andy gasped. “I won’t,” she repeated, punctuating her words with a thrust or a rub. “Feel so good. Fuck.”

Andy felt Miranda’s nails scratch against her upper back and she knew. Miranda came then in low cries that she usually muffled, but tonight she just craned her neck and loosed them towards the ceiling. Andy rested her forehead upon Miranda’s shoulder and kept thrusting, feeling Miranda coat her fingers and palm. Miranda, however, ever the multitasker, never stopped circling Andy’s own clit, much as her fingers stuttered, but the erratic rhythm finally set Andy off too. She gasped against Miranda’s neck and released the overwhelming energy with a bite to Miranda’s skin, quickly soothing it with a kiss.

Both their backs curved in exhaustion against one another, and they collapsed separately upon the bed and its cool sheets, each lying on their backs and staring up at the ceiling. Their gasps punctuated the silence as they caught their breaths and tried to slow their pounding hearts.

Andy looked over towards Miranda after some minutes passed. She knew Miranda usually couldn’t bear to be crowded after sex, so she smothered the urge to wrap her body against Miranda’s as she finally got the hang of breathing again. She turned her gaze back up and swallowed.

Miranda felt like she might overheat, but she just couldn’t help herself tonight. She rolled towards Andrea until half her torso and one leg slapped against Andrea’s cooling skin.

“Oof,” Andy gasped and then smiled brilliantly. She dropped a kiss on the top of Miranda’s head and slid one arm beneath her shoulder, then rested her other palm against Miranda thigh, pulling it more completely across her hips. Miranda’s hand once again rested against Andy’s breast, and Andy smirked to herself at Miranda’s fixation. She expected a more refined taste from Miranda, but no. She loved tits. Andy’s tits in particular, she mentally added with a determined frown.

“Thank you,” Miranda sighed. Leave it to Miranda to suddenly learn manners after getting fucked.

“I think that deserves a mutual thanks.”

Miranda hummed and stirred against Andy’s hip. Andy could feel as Miranda’s lingering wetness continued to coat her hip and loved the warm sensation. The antique clock in the hall ticked softly, as Andy closed her eyes and ran her blunt nails softly against Miranda’s skin.

“Would you like to return to Paris with me next month?” Miranda asked, while tracing circles around Andrea’s nipple and pressing her toes against the inside of her knee. Andrea turned her head towards Miranda, finally looking directly at one another since making each other orgasm at the same time. Andrea’s eyes still glistened, but now another kind of happiness mixed with the lingering desire.

“I’d like that,” Andy whispered. “Crazy how time has flown.”

“Yes,” Miranda responded when Andrea didn’t continue. She kissed the flat of Andrea’s chest softly, right above her heart, and felt Andrea’s strong hands squeeze her thigh and rub her back. Before she could help herself, Miranda whispered against Andrea’s skin.

“I love you.”

Andy’s heart quickened, right there beneath where Miranda’s lips still rested after saying those words. It probably looked decidedly unsexy, but Andy immediately shimmied down until she looked straight into Miranda’s eyes, which shifted anxiously and shimmered in the lingering lamplight.

“I love you,” Andy gasped in response. “You know I do.”

“Yes, I do.”

And it was true. Miranda had always known, perhaps even before Andy had.

They would both look back at this year as a series of whirlwind moments, each moving almost too fast for them to keep up, but somehow they did. Time had slowed down enough for them to fall in sync with one another and begin this next part of their journey. Whether it continued in these quick sprints or smoothed down to an easy stroll, neither woman knew, but they were both glad at the prospect of more moments to share and speed through together from one year to the next.

* * *

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! Thank you SO MUCH for all the comments and kudos over the past few weeks, especially to those of you who've stuck with this story from the start and commented on each chapter. Can't tell you how much I appreciated that! And I'm very eager to hear what you all think of this final chapter. :3 
> 
> I have lots of free time these days, so hopefully I'll be able to use some of that to write more for this pairing. (Perhaps a spinoff? Paris Part 2, maybe? Who knows...) Stay tuned!


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